Blood Splatters: The 23rd Hunger Games
by bobothebear
Summary: "The screams. The blood. The cries for help. All are precisely planned to remind them who they are. Where their place is. How easy it is for me to smash them to pieces. They'll remember me. Not as a weak leader, but a ruthless dictator. They'll remember every detail. All because of the way their kids cry. The way the cannons boom. The way their blood splatters." Closed.
1. A Gamemaker's Role

_A/N: Welcome to the 23__rd__ Hunger Games, a closed SYOT! The tribute form, list, sponsor information, and any other information you might need to be a part of these Games are listed after a short view into President Quinn and Head Gamemaker Ferring's perspective. Enjoy. I'd say one-two updates per week (or more if I really like a tribute/next part of the Games.)_

Disclaimer: As much as I would love to, my given name is sadly not Suzanne Collins. I don't own the Hunger Games.

* * *

**President Kali Quinn**

**The Capitol**

**2:53 A.M., May 16th. One week from the Reapings.**

It was time. Time to show that the Quinn blood belonged in the President's office. It had only been two years, and the Capitol had begun doubting her ruthlessness, her ferocity. She'd show them.

The icy wind blew through the open window in the northeastern corner of her office as a quiet knock rang in the cold silence she'd surrounded herself in.

"Come in," Quinn snapped. Couldn't a President expect peace at almost 3 in the morning? She didn't bother turning; it had to be her newest Gamemaker. Han Ferring, a smallish, Asian man with a sharp tongue and a cunning mind to match, was her latest installment. Her latest chance to prove herself. Perhaps even, her last chance. But she'd seen Han's creation. She'd prove herself.

"President," his high pitch voice rang, "the tributes you've selected have been rigged in the Reapings."

"All of them? The districts have begun to see an opportunity in the weakness of the Games. May I entrust you in making them remember?" Her distant voice was laced with seething venom, hidden in the depths of her long perfected, calm demeanor. Even so, Han easily recognized the threat. Head Gamemakers Orion and Galla before him were prim examples of his fate if his Games weren't exactly perfect.

"Yes, yes. They're ready. The Games will be fine, President. I swear on it," at this moment Quinn turned and stood. The smallish man was a pebble next to Quinn, a tall and broad woman with a devilish grin. Her monstrous hands were smashed against the oak desk and her face was dangerously close to his. Han didn't blink.

"I will hold you to that promise. Now go on, pawn. Show me what you can do."

With that, Han calmly walked out.

* * *

**Head Gamemaker Han Ferring**

**Gamemaker Studio**

**3:01 A.M., May 16****th****. One week before the Games.**

Han's hands flew furiously; his eyes matching speed. One last time. He had to check one last time before the Games began. His hand rose, spinning the arena in his hand. The Cornucopia in all its glory stood, surrounded by a vast, broken town to the south, a sparse forest to the east, and a marshy area with large salt lakes and rivers encompassing the remainder of the arena.

Ferring flipped a switch, turning from the geographical features to the various choices of mutts on hand. A fantastically bloody bat with long legs and huge wings, a four-foot spider with poisonous stingers and a pouch of baby spiders with equal ferocity attached to its abdomen, and a pack of red panthers with long, lethal legs and adapting claws that could do anything from climbing trees and slicing up kids stood before him; however, these were just the beginning.

Continuing on, he found his tribute list. Well, not his, but the President's. After 22 years, President Quinn and her predecessor had yet to rid of all their enemies and grudge-holders. Last year, Quinn had sent a 15 year old rebel son from District 8 and a Capitol runaway from District 12 into the Games. Looking at the list, it was quite obvious Quinn had finally realized how many enemies she has. A total of seven tributes stand before him, each marked with four, bold, red letters.

Make them die slowly.

* * *

A/N: Short, I know! Get used to it; the reapings, train rides, interviews and chariot rides aren't particularly interesting, so none will be extravagantly laced or long. Now with tributes, tributes with detail will automatically outrank boring tributes. Time has no power in this part, so no matter how early you submit, make sure your tribute is unique and special so another tribute doesn't take their spot. Another warning: Reserves last for 3 days unless otherwise specified with a reason. Guys, make the names something that resembles Panem. If I see a George or Kevin, expect to be name-changed. Try not to used over-used or tacky names.

If you have questions, feel free to ask.

Without further warnings, here's the tribute list. Any missing or incomplete portions will be sent right back.

**BACKGROUND**

Name:

Gender:

Age Range (1-2 year Range):

Preferred Districts in Order (list three):

Family/Ancestry History (Don't go overboard):

**TRAITS and RELATIONSHIPS**

Personality (Anti-Mary Sue):

Friends, their relationships:

Family, their relationships:

Romantic Interests:

Common Beliefs (Games, how to treat people, etc.):

Appearance (Include weight, height, build, hair color, eye color, skin tone):

Reaping Outfit:

Chariot Idea:

Interview Outift:

**PRE-GAMES **

Volunteer or Reaped:

Reapings Reaction/ Reason behind Volunteering

Acceptance of Alliances (1-10):

Target group for Alliance:

Strengths:

Weaknesses (Give me something to work with. If it's not long enough, I could make up my own or transfer them from your strengths.):

Training Plan (hide skills, do nothing, show off skills, find allies, etc.)

Preferred training Score:

Interview Angle/Level of Success (1-10):

Preferred Weapon:

Mental Stability and Strength (1-10)

Romance (1-10):

Likeliness to betray alliances (1-10)

Level of Compassion (1-10)

Token:

Goodbyes:

**ARENA**

Cornucopia Plan:

Post-Cornucopia Plan:

Targeted Region of the Arena (Go read the intro if you don't know what the choices are):

Preferred Death Method:

Anything I could've missed:

Current Tributes:

**District One, Luxury**

Male: Everest Duncan, 14 _seventhquill907_

Female: Rosemarie Alice Patrick, 16 _Emmeline C. Thornbrooke_

**District Two, Masonry **

Male: Graecus Kwan, 18 _seventhquill907_

Female: Minet Nikelle, 18 _Elim9_

**District Three, Technology**

Male: Calloway 'Cal' Grace, 13 _Flyere_

Female: Dimity "Babyface" Tallieur, 16 _QuietConspiracy_

**District Four, Fishing**

Male: Mizuko 'Miz' Hali, 17 _Call Me Fin_

Female: Harleen O'Connell, 18 _TheTypeWriter001_

**District Five, Power**

Male: Harley Fitz, 18 _Jay110_

Female: Aurora Hence, 17 _TheTypeWritter001_

**District Six, Transportation**

Male: Cable Summers, 18 _C1nd3r5_

Female: Naya Elbasser, 15 _Firebird128_

**District Seven, Lumber**

Male: Janos Sheenan, 14 _The Koala of Doom_

Female: Onyx Cartier, 13 _torystory93_

**District Eight, Textiles**

Male: Angevin Roi, 16 _xDisgraceful Avengerx_

Female: Syrene Lovett, 15 _LunarLionHeart_

**District Nine, Wheat**

Male: Colm Miller, 13 _Elim9_

Female: Biahniz "Lost Girl" Delucan, 17 _BecauseofKillianJones_

**District Ten, Livestock**

Male: Soner Rowntree, 17 _The Koala of Doom_

Female: Celina Kimp, 15 _Keb85_

**District Eleven, Agriculture**

Male: Roan Kohl, 13, _Flyere_

Female: Ira Quince, 17 _XxEmbraceTheWeirdnessxX_

**District Twelve, Coal**

Male: Calcite Marion, 14 _xDisgraceful Avengerx_

Female: Racia Everlast, 16 _Tigergirl22_


	2. A Gamemaker's Past

_A/N: This chapter gives a bit more insight into the mind of Head Gamemaker Ferring and a couple of arena tidbits here and there. I was feeling particularly inspired and whipped this one up._

_IMPORTANT NOTICE_

_The Sponsor System (while relatively simple) can be slightly annoying to keep up with. For this reason, I can be a bit stupid and miscalculate your total amount of sponsor points. The points are on my page; it would be safe to check on your points to make sure you've gotten what you deserve._

_While the sponsor system isn't always 100% accurate, I do know who has reviewed/favorited/followed. These simple tasks will greatly increase the odds of your tribute not being ripped to shreds, burned in a flowing pit of lava, swallowed whole by orcas, being smashed to pieces by a rockslide, sinking in a quicksand pit, being jumped by monkey mutts… What were we talking about? Oh, right. Review, favorite, and follow to increase the chance of your tribute's safety. _

_As of now, 9 spots remain; all Career spots are taken. To my surprise, I'm actually in need of stronger tributes from the outer districts, so let it rip! _

_I've also decided on my perspective. I plan on writing in 3__rd__ person present tense for the remainder of the story unless there is a certain situation or strong disagreement. Please tell me your opinion on this._

_I've decided on the days I plan on updating. For sure, Saturday will be met with an update, and if I have time/inspiration, Wednesday will also have a chapter. Still, be aware of random chapters flying in on various days (like this one)._

_Okay, enough of this nonsense. Here is Head Gamemaker Han Ferring._

**Head Gamemaker Han Ferring**

**The Gamemaker Banquet Hall**

**9:48 P.M, May 18****th****. Five days before the Reapings.**

"And then she said she'd rather drown in a pit of piranha-infested water!" Gamemaker Nowry squeals. The snooty group of Capitol citizens howled in response.

Head Gamemaker Ferring would have none of it. The imbeciles around him had no care of the Games, which he had spent so long creating and working for. Yet here they were, in their golden robes and emerald-encrusted hats. He'd never understand the Capitol.

It'd only been a total of five years since Han was a legal Capitol citizen. A very powerful Capitol woman became smitten with him while travelling around the Districts looking for inspiration for a large task. As the secretary of District Seven, he had introduced the woman around, leading and helping her every step of the way. Han remembered the way she talked- arrogantly. Even as a secretary, he'd never met someone so… particularly annoying. All the woman seemed to talk about was the parties her foolish acquaintances threw. For a while, Han tuned her out, politely nodding and asking dull questions here and there to quell any thoughts she might've had about him.

But then, she began speaking of who she was. The power she possessed. And for the first time, Han listened to her. He listened to her name. He listened to her father's name. He listened to the authority the two of them shared. And he dreamed of what would happen if he could get a hold of it.

Immediately, Han asked her to dinner. He transformed from the quiet, annoyed man into a handsome, helpful gentleman. Even though Han was a smallish man, the woman fell in love. Quite quickly. The foolish Capitol woman, if one could even call her that, immediately requested Han be transported from the rowdy District Seven to the shining Capitol.

Months after, the two were happily married. The woman had begged and pleaded for children, and for a period of time, Han refused, claiming that he wasn't ready. Of course, he had no attachments to the woman, only her power. But then an idea came. That a child could be the last part of his plan.

Han Ferring and the woman gave birth to a healthy girl, Ellisia Ferring. As the post-pregnancy woman regained her health in the hospital, a horrible tragedy happened while Han was getting some coffee. Her father, the almighty power-holder of the Capitol, had recently died of a supposed heart attack. Stricken with depression, the woman and her newborn returned home with Han after her father's death. The broken family held a quiet, private funeral to remember her father.

But that wasn't the end. Not even close. The woman, of course, had taken her father's business role. The job was infinitely important; it could be the difference between life and death. So the woman entrusted Han to raise Ellisia while she was at work.

For about a year, the family functioned. Ellisia worked, Han raised the girl. But as the woman's job intensified, she made a mortal mistake. She took a day off.

She bought but one day to rest with her family. In that day, Han went to get lunch. After a slightly long wait, he returned.

But in that period of time, another tragedy occurred. A horrible mishap had happened at the woman's workplace. Her latest creation was full of holes, and ruined her project and reputation. It would also decimate her life.

And at the end of Han's tale is a broken, humble man with a beautiful baby girl. The power was transferred out of respect to Han, and was planned to be given to Ellisia in the future. The power Han desired so was finally in his hands. And do you know what that power was? Perhaps it would be easier if you knew who the woman and her father were.

The father was Head Gamemaker Orion of the 21st Hunger Games. The woman was Head Gamemaker Galla of the 22nd Hunger Games. Now you tell me, what exactly was in that coffee Han had bought when Orion died? And how much did the lunch Han buy for his family cost?

A/N: Not my best (or longest) work, but there's Han for you.

Questions of the Chapter (Answer for points!)-

Do you like third person or would you prefer first person?

How do you like Gamemaker Ferring?


	3. District One: The Eager and the Mended

A/N: Hey, guys! Welcome to the reapings. These guys won't be overly long (this idea I credit to _Elim9)_ due to the fact that I'll probably stop caring about writing well halfway through if I write full-length chapters. More than likely, you'll be seeing this size of chapters until training. Bear with me; it'll get better at that point. I have to thank all of you for submitting; I really appreciate your support. Please check out xFallingAshesx and Elim9. They have some rockin' SYOTs that could distract you while I secretly take longer to update… Just kidding. Seriously, though, go check them out.

_IMPORTANT NOTICE_

_Okay, the whole Sponsor System was just being too much to work for, so here is where I believe the whole sponsor thing will stand. I'll be holding polls at the end of the reapings for different categories (favorite tribute, most likely to win, tributes you don't want to be Bloodbathed), and more throughout the story. _

_One note is that the Reapings of mine will occur one hour apart in order for tributes to see each other. I know this isn't how it's supposed to be… but the change will be pretty hard to notice._

_This doesn't mean reviewing/favoriting/following isn't important. I know who has and hasn't, and if you haven't… the Bloodbath will not be a fun chapter for you. _

_That's the end of the notices; here are Everest Duncan and Rosemarie Alice Patrick. This is the first time I've used characters that aren't mine; so please, feel not only free, but welcome to give me your input and suggestions. My apologies to the first couple of districts… who I'll be using as guinea pigs…_

_Let's give a round of applause (or reviews in this case) to seventhquill907 and Emmaline C. Thornbrooke or these (particularly odd) couple of Careers._

* * *

**Rosemarie Alice Patrick**

**District One**

**May 22****nd****, 11:49 P.M. 10 hours and 11 minutes from the Reaping.**

Rosemarie had yet to stop cooking. For eight hours, she'd been preparing Carmen a cake for celebration of another year out of the Games. She was hoping she'd get to serve it.

While the unruly group of kids outside the Mayor's home were hooting over the Games the following day, Rosemarie paid no attention. She just wanted to cook. Her parents and sister, all of which were servants of the Mayor, were long asleep, fading into the empty, fearful rest that came every year before the Reaping even though the District had acquired the Career method. Carmen, Rosemarie's longtime friend, was also resting in fear of the day. Rosemarie would have none of that. Instead, she drowned her worries in the cream whipping with Carmen's name curved across the cake.

_Carmen. _An unconscious grin spread across her face at the thought of her best friend. Every time they hung out, it felt as if she was a queen. In control, in power. And most of all, happy. Carmen made her happy.

A light sigh slipped from Rosemarie's thin lips as she gripped the cake out of the oven. _Stop that. Stop thinking like that. You're a horrid being, Rosemarie. Horrid. _

For the hundredth time, she spoke the words she expected Carmen would say to her if she ever told Carmen about her daily thoughts. She could only imagine the horror splayed across her face; the horror and disgust of what were best friend was.

Gently brushing her strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes, Rosemarie placed the cake in the fridge before going to the washroom to change.

She shed her close quickly before glancing at herself in the mirror. Her steel eyes looked at themselves before glancing at her ivory skin and average body structure. And with that, she raised her hand to the cold glass, running her hand along the steel that reflected her outline. _I'll never be pretty… Not like the princesses in the tales… Not like… Carme… No. Stop it._

Quickly, Rosemarie threw on a light purple dressing gown and quietly stepped into the room she shared with her beloved sister, Ruby. Ruby was everything that her parents were. Beautiful, intelligent, normal. Everything Rosemarie wasn't. But no matter how much she envied her sister's skills and given gifts, she would always love Ruby. More than anyone. Except, maybe… No. Stop it.

Her mind swamped in its usual chaos as she drew the covers and blew the candle. In her dreams, Rosemarie finally allowed herself to think what if. To imagine her fairytale that would never come true. And with it, she dreamed of a certain Mayor's daughter with beautiful bronze skin and a light, gentle voice. Oh, what a dream it was.

* * *

**Everest Duncan**

**District One**

**9:16 A.M., May 22****nd****. 44 minutes before the Reaping. **

"Ev! Let's go!" an abrupt voice yelled the young, 14 year old out of his slumber. Gradually, Everest got up, ruffling his dirty blonde hair out of his deep, brown eyes.

He quickly hopped out of his bed and hopped in the shower, knowing the drill of the day. Go to the Reaping. Watch Honduras Gor and Uriah Stevens volunteer. It was only Everest's third year of training, but he'd become obsessed. For years, he's been fascinated at the thought of winning the Games. Taking the crown of Victor and throwing lavish, Capitol parties and meeting beautiful, Capitol girls. Well, throwing lavish parties. The Capitol girls were a bit iffy; it's kind of hard to focus on their curves when they have green skin and owl eyes.

After a brief cleansing, Everest hopped out of the shower and grabbed a pair of underwear and the outfit his mother had laid out for him the night before. Though he hadn't seen her physically arrange this, one glance at the outfit screamed his mother. A collared, blue shirt and light khaki's that undoubtedly keep it in her thick skull that her little Ev was still her little baby boo.

Nevertheless, Everest put on the lackluster outfit before treading down the staircase. His mother and father sit, waiting for their perfect son to finally go to the Reapings.

"It's about time, young man. At this rate, we'll be late. Imagine what the Correvasins will say about us when we're late!" His father piped as he shoved his family out the door.

All this man could ever think of was his reputation. Apparently, it was important to have a good reputation when you're the assistant secretary of the Dia-Mine, District One's mind chalk-full of diamonds.

As the trio moved towards the Town Hall, he couldn't understand how his father and mother ever came to be. His mother, a kind, naïve woman and his father, a worried, ignorant man weren't exactly compatible.

Just as the Duncans reached the Town Hall, Mayor Perez began speaking of the Capitol's greatness and power. He swore that his father hissed when the speech began, shoving their son to sign in.

The line was non-existent; only Everest and two rowdy girls remained. The pair appeared out of breath and red-cheeked. The paler of the two looked ridiculously happy. Come to think of it, Everest recognized the darker girl as the Mayor Perez's daughter. He could only wonder how they'd gotten here.

* * *

**Rosemarie Alice Patrick **

**District One**

**9:30 A.M., May 22****nd****. 30 minutes before the Reaping.**

Though the rest of the families and workers had departed for the Reaping half an hour ago, Rosemarie and Carmen remained on the patio of the Mayor's home. Distantly, Carmen said something as she fiddled with a flower. Rosemarie couldn't hear a word; she was focused on Carmen's eyes. Deep set, blue orbs of majestic… No. Stop it.

"Rosemarie?" Carmen inquired.

She responded unsteadily, taken out of her focused daze. "What?"

Carmen giggled before replying, "Goofball, I said, 'Do you wanna race?"

Tilting her head, Rosemarie asked back, "Race? But we're wearing heels," gesturing to their shoes.

"Come on, it'll be fun! Let's go!" Grabbing her hand, Carmen yanked Rosemarie up and onto a patch of grass next to the Mayor's house. "Ready… Go!" Carmen unexpectedly broke off, firing in the direction of the Reaping. Rosemarie slowly gained on the Mayor's daughter, with her longer legs, she could reach Carmen within a couple of more strides and…

Bam! Carmen had looked back for a second before crashing into Uriah Stevenson and his little posse.

"Well, well, look who we have here. Carmen Perez, what a coincidence. We were just talking about you," Uriah murmured, slowly getting closer to Carmen's figure. A wave of heat spread across Rosemarie's body; he had no right to touch her Carmen. Did she just think… her Carmen? She wasn't her Carmen. She was just Carmen and nobody coul-

"Quit!" Once again, Rosemarie, locked in her phase of paralysis while thinking of Carmen missed Uriah leaning in for a kiss. Somewhere inside, something went off of Rosemarie. And so did Rosemarie's control.

Leaping and screaming, she clawed at Uriah before bashing his head against the floor. His posse quickly launched at her after the initial shock, but she was quickly released when her foot found one of the member's weak spot.

After returning to control, she hopped back to Carmen before doing something odd. She leaned in, much like Uriah just had. And just like that, the two kissed. When the posse finally noticed, all of them, including Uriah backed up.

"Aw sick! The little creep is kissing her!" Uriah leaped to his feet and jogged off, quickly followed by his toadies.

In fear of her reaction, Rosemarie turned slowly to Carmen before letting a light huff out. Carmen didn't even seem shocked.

"Hey, thanks back there. Those idiots bother me everywhere," Carmen muttered as she dusted off her dress.

As realization dawned on Rosemarie, she felt a quiet pang of sadness over her. Carmen didn't even think about the chance of what Rosemarie felt. She thought it would've been better if Carmen just slapped her. It would've hurt a lot less.

* * *

**Everest Duncan**

**The Reaping, District One**

After passing the Mayor's daughter, Everest joined his fellow fourteen-year olds and crossed his arms as the mayor finished his dull speech. Didn't they understand that they'd heard this every year?

The escort, a bubbly, exuberant woman whose name slipped past Everest, began glowering pointlessly about the chances of winning this year; someone must've told her who was volunteering. Uriah and Honduras are probably the best tributes District One will ever send. As he glanced around, Everest spotted the selected male volunteer and was nothing less than shell-shocked. The glowing representative of District One had an arm cast and a battered face and neck.

Everest's plan came quickly. Since Uriah was injured, he could volunteer without penalty. Ever since the creation of the Career system, the Career selectors specified volunteering laws. Only the chosen tribute could volunteer. Any breaking of this rule, including other aspiring fighters volunteering would result in severe punishment for their family if they lost.

But if Uriah's injured, surely the committee would turn a blind eye… Everest was only representing his district. He just finished planning when the woman began screeching again.

"For our boys, we have a… Crimson Adjav! Where is our lucky man?" slow murmurs filter as the boy next to Everest began making his way to the stage. Apparently, this boy noticed Uriah's mishaps and comprehended what would happen. Crimson would die. Way to make Everest's decision easier.

"I volunteer!" he called out. A sigh of relief visibly exited the woman as she realized she would actually get a volunteer. As he strolled gingerly down the path, Crimson, who wore thick glasses and had next to no build, mouthed a silent thank you.

No, Crimson, Everest thought with a grin, thank you.

* * *

**Rosemarie Alice Patrick**

**District One Reaping**

Was she shocked some fourteen year old volunteered? Slightly. Did she care? No. The only thing Rosemarie could think of was Carmen. Beautiful, blissful Carmen, who is positively blind to Rosemarie's constant affection. Perhaps she needs to kiss her again.

It certainly felt good.

She tore her focus out of Carmen when another girl shoved her with a rude "move" to get her spot, presumably to volunteer. Annoyed, Rosemarie growled before shoving her to the ground.

Only when the girl got up and glared at her did she realize who this was. Honduras Gor, District One's selected female, sat, clutching her wrist with pain. Crap. That's two Careers down, Rosemarie to go. Undoubtedly, taking down both of the Careers wouldn't go unpunished.

Nervously, she glanced at the girl under her when a voice called out her name. Undoubtedly, it was Carmen, shocked from noise she'd created. Glancing at the source, she realized that it wasn't Carmen calling her, but Pyra Hanks. Who happened to be District One's escort. Shocked of the situation she was in, Rosemarie walked up slowly; surely someone would volunteer for a non-trained seventeen year old. Surely. Fists clutched, she ascended the podium and glanced at Carmen, whose face looked like she was torn. It only took a moment to decide what she was thinking of doing.

Quickly, Rosemarie shook her head in tremors with unspoken pleas of reasoning to Carmen. Carmen, still appearing torn, stepped back and looked down.

Turning slightly, Rosemarie spotted Honduras who had a nasty smirk plastered on her face. It seemed all too fast when the escort called for her to shake the young boy's hand. And then it finally hit her. She was going to die.

They lead the tributes off; the crowd cheers them out, though they clearly expected two different representatives. As Rosemarie dully walked to the meeting room, her emotion changed from shocked to angry. The Career system sucks. Couldn't they supply a back-up? Surely she wasn't the first one to suffer because the system is corrupt.

Confused, Rosemarie sat, waiting for the door to open. The first visitors are her parents. They appear tearfully, grabbing her and crying deeply into her shoulders. Rosemarie eventually gave into the emotion, crying a bit, but in controlled measure. After sobs and promises to try are released, they're taken away.

The next group of visitors are various maids, butlers, and gardeners who served around the Mayor's home that spent every day working side by side with her.

Eventually, the Mayor himself came. Mayor Perez, accompanied by his wife, walked in with a stony expression.

"Thank you, for your, uh, work. I appreciate you accompanying Carmen."

"It's been my pleasure," Rosemarie replied weakly. For the majority of the time, the mayor's wife praised her skills around the kitchen before a guard announced their time was up.

"Rosemarie? Thank you. For… not letting her…" the mayor, who'd always been a strong, steely man, choked a bit before finishing, "Thank you for not letting her go. I'll always be in your debt."

As the pair exited, Rosemarie twiddled her fingers, occasionally brushing her tears off with the sleeve of her green dress shirt. She quietly caressed the material before a high squeal caught her off guard.

"ROSE!" her younger sister cried. In fits of tears on hysterical sobs, Ruby collapsed into Rosemary's arms. The two flowed tears out, murmuring occasional 'I love yous.' For what seemed like the thousandth time, everything happened too quickly, and before she could even say goodbye, Ruby was gone.

Now wailing hysterically, Rosemarie curled up on the satin chair she rested upon, when the voice she'd been waiting, craving to hear finally called out.

"Mae," a breathless Carmen murmured. She brought herself into Carmen's open arms.

"It'll be okay," Carmen said quietly. "Your father has taught you judo. And with all that time in the kitchen, you've ought to be perfect with a dagger."

Rosemarie didn't even bother to comment on how a cake was just a tad easier to cut than a person's lifespan.

Instead, Rosemarie said in a whisper, "That kiss was real Carmen. It always will be real. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I'm sorry." Quickly, Rosemarie backed up, analyzing Carmen's face, but once again, her form was stoic. Actually, she seemed pleased.

Hurriedly, she clasped Rosemarie's face before creating what must've been the best ten seconds of Rosemarie's life.

"We don't have much time, Mae. So take this. Please come home. Your parents and Ruby need you. My family needs you… I need you. Come home," she cries as the guard grasps her by the arm, dragging her out. In her hand is pendant of red material that Rosemarie distantly decides is a cat.

Rosemarie was, once again, unable to respond because of Carmen.

* * *

A/N: Surprise! I was free, and I just felt like writing. As you might've noticed, Everest didn't make an appearance in the Goodbyes because honestly, his goodbyes aren't anything that would affect him. Rosemarie needed to see Carmen for the last time.

Anywho, please tell me your thoughts of my work and the tributes.

Questions of the Chapter:

Who do you favor more and why?

How did I portray these tributes?

Did you like the tense and point of view? Should I change it?


	4. District Two: The Bloody and the Fierce

_A/N: Wow. I've completely destroyed the whole updating schedule._

_It's mostly because I have time this week; next week will be full of projects and tests… so here we go. Since these are reapings, I'll try to lash out as many as I can in a given time, maybe one or a couple more will be posted this week. I want to get them out as quickly as possible while having decent writing and giving you enough information to remember a couple of tributes (I'm having this issue). _

_I'll have a quick shout-out to Call Me Fin and Flyere for their new SYOTs! Go check them out! _

_For once, I don't have any notices for you, so please welcome District Two, Masonry! Representing the stone district will be Graecus Kwan and Minet Nikelle from seventhquill907 and Elim9._

* * *

**Graecus Kwan**

**District Two's Training Centre**

**May 14****th****, 10:02 P.M. Six days, eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes until the Reapings.**

Ding. Ding. Ding. The metallic clang of Graecus' knives embedding themselves into the steel targets rang gloriously for himself and the judges to hear. Glancing at them, he noticed several with light grins and glowing eyes of approval.

He knew what this meant. That finally, after all the years of training, he could win the Hunger Games. It was unofficial, both his victory and his selection, but the two seemed impossible to go any way but his.

"You may go, Mr. Kwan," one judge, who specifically refused to look him in the eye, said nonchalantly.

With a quiet nod, Graecus stepped out of the training room, which thriving students were told greatly resembles the Training Center in the Capitol when he heard quick footsteps thumping behind him.

Graecus swiveled around to catch sight of a Peacekeeper, dressed in the usual white uniform. However the guard's outfit wasn't what intrigued him. It was the note in his hands. Rarely did Peacekeepers serve as mailmen.

The man panted heavily before commenting, "Kwan. You're requested at the hospital." Confused, Graecus took the note. It didn't say anything the guard hadn't told him. In simple, black letters were his full name and a request to see the head doctor. He was feeling fine; why would they need him?

"Uh thanks," Graecus replied in a careful voice before trotting off. Hurriedly, his walk became a jog, and his jog became a sprint. Something about the look in the guard's eye spread doubt through his mind. _Is Jace okay? Is this about Mom? She said she was fine…_

Graecus arrived at the glowing, white hospital in approximately three minutes and thirty seven seconds, about the same speed as a bike is expected to travel the mile and a quarter distance.

Against his beliefs, both his mother and his younger sister, Jace, were seated and fine. When he made eye contact with his mother, he could easily identify the variety of emotions swamping her mind. Confusion and anxiety were predominant, though hints of anger and annoyance could be identified off of her face. Damn Career courses taught everything…

"Gray," his mother began, her voice rough and displeased, "we need to talk." His mother calmly walked down a hallway; her heels clicking behind her. Graecus nervously ran a hand down his blonde locks before stealing a side-glance from Jace; she visibly shared the feelings he felt. Fear, worry. It was likely she didn't even know.

He eventually caught up to his angry mother, turning a corner to be met with a sturdy hand slapping him viciously, causing stars to spot in his vision. His mother may be old, but she sure wasn't weak.

"Graecus Arbin Kwan. How dare you? How dare you do this to me?" his mother quipped with a nasty sneer across her face.

"Mom, mom. I have no idea what you're talking about," he responded sincerely.

"That damned girl you've been messing with. What's her name? Calypso? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? I didn't do anything! Yeah, I've messed with her, what's your point?" he snarled back. At this, his mother grabbed him by the collar and slapped him again. Even though he towered a good half a foot over her, his mom would always have full authority over him.

"Do not speak to me like that, young man. You very well know what you did, stop lying. I can't go home and rest for one hour before your stupid girlfriend calls me up saying 'My presence was needed.' If I'd known what you'd done, I would've just hung up! But no, you had to drag me out here with your ignorance of telling me. You bring dishonor to me. You are a disgrace," she finished, sneering.

"Mom, I have no idea what you're talking about. I haven't talked to Calypso in like, a year. What the hell did she want so badly?" Graecus responded with his arms flailing in the air like a child.

"Foolish boy, you really don't know, do you?" Quickly, Graecus shook his head. "Great. Dishonorable and stupid," she said, pinching her bridge, "Graecus, Calypso's pregnant."

Graecus, in fear and anger, remained silent.

* * *

**Graecus Kwan**

**District Two, Kwan Household**

**May 22****nd****, 9:14 A.M. 46 minutes before the Reapings. **

He still couldn't believe it. The girl he'd screwed months ago was pregnant for nine months and decided against telling him. When he'd confronted her, the dunce claimed she hadn't known herself. What kind of woman doesn't account for a huge belly and missing monthlies for three quarters of year?

In his dark, red dress shirt, and black tie, Graecus fiddled with his watch, originally from his father, as thoughts of the devilish girl continued to flow. It didn't take a genius to know why she'd done it. She wanted attention. Calypso, born in a big family with a Victor as a sibling, had always been overlooked, so in return, the crazed girl decided to get pregnant. Willingly. Knowing how crazy she was, Graecus began to wonder how much he'd had to drink that night…

"Stop thinking about it. You can't change your stupid actions," his mother spat. He looked up at his mother, who'd only become slightly less explosive for a period of time when they'd received the news of Graecus's success in the selection. He'd been selected to win the Games.

Of course, when she'd realized she'd be responsible for Arisson, his newborn boy, in his absence, she'd gone nuts for the second, third time this week. The woman couldn't stop yelling about how stupid he was.

"Graecus, are you even listening?" she screeched, with her hands behind her and her eyes demonized. "My Lord, what kind of mishap are you?" She threw her hands down and let out a grunt of anger.

Jace quietly descended the stair; his mother's gaze softening at Jace. Though their mother was nowhere near nice even to Jace, she wasn't at insane as she was when he was involved.

"Let's go, kids. I don't need any more stress. We need to get to the reapings. If we're lucky, the Nikelle girl won't volunteer just like the District One selection, and Calypso'll get reaped. That'd be grand," she muttered.

Only silence remained as the Kwans left for the Reaping.

* * *

**Minet Nikelle**

**District Two Training Center**

**May 11****th****, 4:15 P.M. Ten days, seventeen hours, forty five minutes until the Reapings.**

"Trainees," the judge called, "as you know, there are many of you who thrive to bring our district the honor and glory it deserves. While all of the selection and coaching staff greatly appreciate your efforts, we can send only the brightest, most cunning tributes to the Arena."

A thick silence continued after the judge ceased to speak. All around her, tributes of all ages, sizes, and age sat tersely, anxiously awaiting the training results.

Sadly for the girls, Minet would be chosen. She knew it. She'd perfected her intelligence and mentality tests long before the others had, and her physical finesse was undeniable. The only test she'd had trouble with was the appeal test. Though she was deadly and bloodthirsty, the glowing image of a Career, she wasn't the prettiest to look at with her stocky body and short limbs. Not to mention she didn't exceed four feet. Nor did she reach it.

To Minet, her size never stopped her from becoming the best. Even though there were girls nearly twice her size, she had never lost a match in the Training Center. The selection committee must've understood the skills and intelligence she possessed. She was sure of it.

"And with that, I'll announce her two ambassadors for the Games," the woman called in a steady voice. The entirety of the trainees inhaled a big breath as her next words came out.

"Representing our boys will be Graecus Kwan, and our girl will be Minet Nikelle."

A howl of excitement rang out from the male section. A tall, handsome boy with blonde hair was the apparent winner. She'd seen him around; his group was among the most successful trainees. Though many of his friends congratulated him full heartedly, many were obviously saddened. For most, this was their last chance. And they hadn't done enough.

Looking around, several girls shot envious glares her way. They didn't affect her. The judge motioned for the two of them to approach as she got a better look at her competition. His hands had scars. Knuckles were obviously used often. She guessed archery. Perhaps knife throwing. His arms had muscles, but their even spacing gave away that they weren't gained by spear throwing. The palms of his hands, though scarred, seemed to be smooth. Sword training wouldn't be likely.

He's a long distance performer. No close combat skills… She would keep that in mind. Minet knew that her skillset would be unknown to those around her. She had purposefully practiced multiple instruments of pain in order to confuse those who read her. Of course, she had a favorite, the rapier. She could wipe out several towns, if districts if she had a rapier in her hands.

The Games? Child's play.

* * *

**Minet Nikelle**

**District Two Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:13 A.M. Thirteen minutes into the Reapings**

The entirety of District Two stood in a dirty puddle. Acidic rain poured down from the black clouds above; so much that District Two's drought record was wiped off the map. Minet stole a quick glance at her brother, who no longer stood one age group in front of her, but far behind, with eased parents and young children.

In the past year, Anders had been thought to be a shoe-in for the selection committee. But when Klimp Neville was selected, Minet had her doubts. Anders was a class above the rest when it came to fighting. Unlike her, he towered above his competition, with a bulk of a god. His blonde locks and deep brown eyes made so many girls fawn over him, Minet was pretty sure they didn't share the same gene pool. He was everything the selection committee looked for in a tribute. There could only be one thing keeping him from the Games. Himself.

Minet had taken note of years past, when he'd been taken note of by the committee. Every time he saw one staring right back at him, he would miss. Badly. Consecutively, he would drive the attention away from him, and onto another trainee. Anders' failure wasn't due to his lack of skill or talent. It was because he failed to remain safe.

As much as she cared for her brother, Minet couldn't help but be disgusted. Anders had a chance of proving himself to the other brats around the District. On several occasions, Minet had wondered if she was the only one who needed to prove herself… but she had always shooed the thought away. She wasn't the self-pitying type.

Looking at her brother, who was encased on either side by their parents, she caught a hint of a grin on his light lips. He gave her a thumbs up, but she saw right through him, as she was trained her whole to do. His eyes gave it away. They weren't their usual warm shade; instead, a darker, blacker tint of brown stared into her own.

_Despicable. Her own blood was doubting her. _Anders had never been like this. He'd always supported her. Perhaps there was a reason he was being concerned… Nevertheless, she had a Games to win. His doubt wouldn't spread to her. She wouldn't allow it.

She escaped her thought when a pudgy girl next to her nudged her with her overly large elbow. Normally, the imbecile would've hit someone in the chest, but as a shorter person, the monstrous bone nailed Minet in the nose.

"Crap! I'm sorry," the buffoon squealed. Minet glared at her, tasting the metallic tang on her lips. Her sharp, dagger-like teeth had sunken into her lips. Thick, coppery blood left her mouth in coughs; her nose had its own steady stream of red ink spilling downwards.

"You little… forget it! I'm not going to bother," Minet swallowed. Against her better judgment, she walked away from a fight she could easily win. She never doubted herself, but she'd seen the District One Reapings. It was pretty obvious by the amount of times cameras swarmed two, beaten-up kids that they were supposed to volunteer.

It wasn't uncommon for Career Districts to give the Capitol a heads-up.

However, when the names were called, both remained silent. Due to injury, of course. But Minet wouldn't allow herself to be taken out of the Games by an obese gorilla.

_If that… thing could do so much damage on you, imagine really being hit. Maybe Anders had the right idea… _It was no use now. If a Career who was chosen refused to volunteer… there were consequences. Consequences that included being hated and being shunned by your district. Consequences that included your family receiving the same treatment. Consequences that caused disappearances. Deaths.

So no matter her odds, Minet was going in. She shushed the little wimp in her and stood tall. She wasn't backing down now.

Finally, the Capitol man accepted that he'd get wet. The mayor had made his speech aches ago, but this man had refused to stand up until the clouds dissipated. The escort, Narus or something along those lines, was a birdlike… thing. He had crow wings and a colorful head of hair, perhaps to resemble a parrot. His voice, even, had been transformed to occasionally _scaw! _That couldn't pleasant to sleep with.

"Alright District Two! Let me hear you!" Much to Minet's dismay, the majority of the crows actually screamed and yelled. She just lost about half the respect for her district.

"That's how I like it! We have some… weather problems here, but that's not gonna stop us, is it?" The crowd roared again. "I'm not sure I heard _Scaw! _you. The crowd responded louder, though Minet couldn't decide if it was because they were screaming louder or cracking up at this guy. Maybe a bit of both.

"That's better! Let's get us some rockin' tributes!" he yelled for the last time. He sauntered, waddled might be a better description, to the large, now dampened glass bowl. Many strips of paper were wet and unreadable. Not that it mattered, or anything.

The man's hand plunged in the bowl, and grabbed a strip deep in the bottom.

"Kiara Love!"

A strong-looking seventeen year old strolled to the podium, but she should've known better.

"I volunteer!" Minet cried out. Some adults and other trainees groaned, sure that Minet wasn't the vicious fighter they were promised. Even the escort lost his composure for a bit. Without a care in the world, Minet sassily walked up to the podium and bluntly stated her name. The escort, slightly stunned, walked to the boys' bowl.

* * *

**Graecus Kwan**

**District Two Town Hall**

**May 22****nd****, 10:25 A.M. Twenty-five minutes into the Reaping. **

Graecus sighed profoundly. The girl he'd met in the Training Center wasn't an illusion. The little thing really had been picked. He glared at her, then Calypso. He couldn't decide who he hated more. In the arms of Jace behind him was the little creation with his blonde hair. Arisson.

He still hadn't decided where he was with the kid. Sure, he was his, but it's not like he meant to… make him. He had just been drunk.

Honestly, he wouldn't mind just paying some guy to take on the role for him. Last thing he needed was another life form who either depended on him or hated his guts.

Narus moved from his shock to the transparent bowl in front of him. He appeared to have closed eyes, probably praying for a tribute with a shot at this.

_Don't worry, Narus. I've got you._

The bird man yanked out a strip magnificently, and just as his mouth (beak?) opened up to speak, Graecus stepped out.

"I volunteer," Graecus said blankly. Bored was a good look, you know.

Though Narus was usually annoyed with early volunteers, he let Graecus slide. At least this one was normal height.

The crowd visibly eased up as well. Though the trainees had gotten word of the girl's legitimate training and selection, the crowd was still doubtful. At most, the girl was a couple of inches shorter than Jace.

Graecus' luck had just gotten _that much better._

* * *

A/N: I feel like a sucky person for updating abnormally, but this chapter was technically slated for this Saturday. Since I sent out District One early, I guess it… oh whatever. Free time + Reviews = Earlier updates. Simple math.

Talking about reviews, I did get substantially less. I'm not overly obsessed with the number, but I want to give the crown to a submitter who actually reads, and lets me know. It'd be unfair to let a tribute win, even though their submitter decided to not read for a couple months, or so.

LET'S TALK ABOUT SOMETHING POSITIVE THIS DEPRESSION IS ANNOYING.

Sorry. Had to get that out. These two tributes are… two high contenders with (in my opinion) pretty unique stories. Surprise pregnancy and Dwarfism don't pop up in SYOTs too often.

Let's answer questions! *Crazy Career level yells*

How was the portrayal of these two?

Who do you like more and why?

Do you have some critique for me? (No is a good answer, Yes is a lot better).

If you guys didn't catch on, I'm asking for critique. Please don't huddle in a corner with _legitimate _advice, fearing for your tribute's safety. Hit me with everything you've got; it's a learning experience.

BIG FAT JUICY NOTICE

I really need a beta reader. As much as I appreciate the lot of you, I'd like to have a non-submitter as a beta. (Bias reasons, yadda yadda yadda)

If any of you wonderful people know an equally wonderful person who will _thoroughly _go through some chapters with grammatical, mechanical, sentence flow, development, and other advice, PLEASE LEAD ME TO THEM. I'm relatively new here, and I don't really have a buddy ring.

Thanks! Expect an update… Oh, I feel like I'm going to lie to you. Just be ready… they'll come when you least expect it…

-Bobo


	5. District Three: The Fearful and the Red

_A/N: Hey! Quick Notices today._

_Still on the lookout for a reliable beta, if you could help, it'd be great. If not, don't worry about it. _

_Secondly, for those of you who don't review… I know who you are. I'm not saying you've got to sit here and viciously stalk, but a review that lets me know you're still reading is nice. _

_By the way, I wanted to talk about timing. As you've seen, I leave cute little time slots to give an effect. Most of the time, they are accurate and chronological. Kudos to the person who spots the mistake in the last four chapters… Anyway, each district has its reapings one hour apart from one another, following district order. Don't go all mathematic on me and start talking about how it'd 11 or 12 or start talking about time zones… This specific part of the story is specifically placed like this so the tributes in later districts can view others. Anyone recall Minet considering the District One Reaping? _

_Lastly, let's give a big hand of applause to our tributes and submitters of District Three, Dimity Tallieur and Calloway Grace! Our submitters are QuietConspiracy (Dimity's) and Flyere (Calloway's)._

_Without further annoyance on my part, here are the tributes._

* * *

**Calloway Grace**

**District Three Boarding School**

**May 15****th****, 11:28 A.M. Six days, twelve hours, and thirty-two minutes until the Reapings.**

"And here, we have what we call the Arizonian Theorem. It was developed by Marcus Ari before Panem was formed. His theorem states that when two different speeds are measured in one object at the exact same second, then the object has literally broken time and space. You see he wrote it when he was watching rebel troops pass by, and two different speed pedometers read the same tank with an astounding 0.00004891 speed difference!"

All of the Boarding School for Excellence groaned as Mr. Junifer continued. Well, almost all of them. In the two front seats, Calloway Grace and Aron Skips sat, scribbling furiously to note every single one of Junifer's words.

"Hey dweeb," one particularly stupid boy in the boy called to Aron. Aron, a klutz at its finest, swiveled to be met with several spitballs. All the time, Mr. Junifer continued to note the Arizonian Theorem.

"Ew! Man… I missed the notes!" Aron exclaimed before picking up his pencil again. Calloway slipped a sideways glance at his best (and only) friend. Though his face and dark brown curls were slathered with saliva, he furiously flicked his wrist to catch up to Mr. Junifer.

This was why they were best friends. Some fluke in grade school got them permanently expelled from the regular school, but they helped each other cope through the large hallways of buffoons and meatheads.

Calloway quickly continued writing, and just as he reached where Mr. Junifer reached, the bell dismissing them home rang out.

"Oh, already? Time flies when you're learning the theorems, doesn't it, class?" The response was sarcastic, snarky, and rude to say the least, but Mr. Junifer was completely unaware. The poor man was too sucked up in his own teachings.

Calloway looked back at Aron, who'd finally began scraping the crud off his face. "C'mon. Let's go get you cleaned up," Calloway murmured, taking Aron by the arm into the disgusting excuse of a bathroom.

After getting over the initial odor, Calloway splashed some water on Aron's face, effectively ridding him of the... fluids.

"Thanks," Aron muttered. Calloway, or Cal, as he often referred to himself as, easily related. The two of them had it cut out for them. They would live the rest of their educational years with delinquents. Two geniuses in the midst of idiots. It was definitely a hard life.

"Hurry, mom's expecting me. If I'm not home soon, there's a sixty-six experimental probability that I'll get a scolding," Cal called at Aron. The latter nodded, slipping his bag back on before jogging awkwardly to catch up with Cal, who'd already started the two-mile walk home. Most of the kids who attended the school could easily make it home in five minutes flat, but the neighborhood around here wasn't exactly what the two were used to.

Cal and Aron were aristocratic geniuses. They belonged in the Wire, the common nickname for District Three's richer part of town. The Boarding School of Excellence, which was fittingly created by an excellent man, was strategically positioned in the dirtier portion of town. Logically, the school was quite the ways away from their homes.

In years past, Cal had it even better than the Wire. Until two years ago, he'd been in the Mayor's house. His grandfather, a happy, intelligent man, served as governor for two long, beautiful decades. Then… Something happened. His grandfather disappeared. They were taken out of the Mayor's house. A replacement election was held.

The worst part? That District Three forgot about his grandfather in a matter of days.

* * *

**Calloway Grace**

**Grace Household**

**May 22****nd****, 6:49 A.M. Three hours, eleven minutes until the Reapings.**

The days had practically run away. Cal had been counting the days, occasionally begging them to come back. The Reapings had never been kind to Cal's family or loved ones. Ever since his grandfather disappeared, nothing has. It'd seem like the entire district was out to get him. Perhaps that wasn't too far off.

Cal sat at his porch, calmly praying to be excluded from the Games this year. Not just himself, but his family. His parents had four remaining kids, five including Cal. His eldest sister, Khione, had been reaped at the mere age of twelve. She had died a slow death. A very slow death.

But after that point, the Grace's had been spared, temporarily at least. Cal's sister, second only to Khoine, had made it through all eight years of the reaping without being called. A stroke of luck amidst the disaster that was the Grace family.

Cal wasn't the only one remaining in the reaping. The twins, Lara and Aden, were both three years his senior, making them the dangerous age of sixteen. After him, Ross and Lycan still had time to grow up before the reaping. They had four and one years left, respectively.

It might seem simple, from afar. He had an older brother who would volunteer from him, right?

No. Aden was born with hypochondriac syndrome. Even as a child, he couldn't control anything. His hands, feet, brain. They were all useless organs, bones, and muscles in a field of blank.

So that settled that. There was nobody to protect Cal. He was on his own. Of course, he had nothing to truly worry about. To get reaped with his measly four slips was unlikely. Statistically… carry the two… he had less than a one percent chance. Wait… that's not right. He sat, drawing invisible numbers into the sky, calculating his chance of doom. And no matter how measly, he knew it was there. His odds of death. Not because of his experimental or theoretical probability. Because of his family. The Grace family was just bad omen.

* * *

**Dimity Tallieur**

**District Three Factory**

**May 22****nd****, 2:43 A.M. Seven hours, seventeen minutes until the Reaping.**

Dimity was tired. As a fifteen year old girl on reaping day, you'd expect a day off, right? But no. Mr. Natin refused to give the workers a day off. Even if the Reaping was tomorrow.

"Let's go, Tallieur! Keep it moving!" the incessant man screeched. She tuned him out; a human could only hear his high pitched, squeaky squabbles for so long while keeping their sanity. Her group of workers would continue factory working for… She stole a quick glance at the clock. Seventeen minutes. She'd be out in seventeen minutes.

With her escape of the noxious fumes in mind, Dimity worked quietly. Pressing wires, connecting circuits, aligning plugs. The minutes passed quickly, and before she knew it, Natin finally called it a day. Or morning. Whatever.

Dimity quickly walked away from the noxious fumes into _different _noxious fumes. _The life of District Three, _she thought lightly, _where you'll smell so much like chemicals, it'll be eternally etched in your nose._ Honestly, she'd began to prefer the scent. It reminded her of her independence. Of her strength.

It'd been two years since she'd been… removed from her kin's home. For so long, she was a beggar… for so long she had nothing. But she grew up. Alone. She knew she was tough, and she did the only thing she could do. She got over it.

Enrolled in the factory since she was thirteen, Dimity paid for a small apartment with the help of Mr. Natin, and was fine. Not happy, but fine.

Then she met them. Their first encounter hadn't been pleasant. As Dimity trotted to her friends' special street she knew they'd be waiting at, she began to reminisce.

_It'd been cold. Mr. Natin, feeling sentimental, allowed her half the day off, so she could keep warm, apparently. Her keys and coins for the day jingled happily in her pockets as she ascended the staircase to Room 41A. Hers, of course. _

_She plugged the key in, and swung it open, ready for a day of relaxation and sleep. Instead of the warm couch and bed she awaited, she was face to face with a group of four._

_She remembered screaming. A lot of that. The four teenagers shared nervous glances, before the biggest took a hold of her. The others continued to shakily ransack her apartment. Then… she started crying. Begging to be let go and for them to leave her alone. _

_And for some reason, they listened. At the time, she'd been surprised, but now, she understood why. They needed her. _

Somehow, someway, they'd began to bond. Dimity assisted them in their… interesting occupation with not the agility of Parrot, the group leader, or the cunning of Ditto, but simply with her face. While Babette got all the men's attention with her body, Dimity gave a new angle. Dimity tricked women.

It's only logical; what kind of woman doesn't love a baby?

Dimity'd been told before about her young complexion, but it hadn't been until she began to work in the gang that she'd understand how young she looked.

A faint smile traced her face as she recalled what Chum, a big, strong guy with a truly soft heart had called her the first time he didn't but her in a headlock. Babyface. Against her arguments, the name stuck.

_Turn left of Halling, right on Smith_. She didn't need to know the streets, but it'd become muscle memory, brain memory, rather, for her to recognize small details. She needed to; she was a thief, after all.

As she took the last corner, she began to break out in a jog. As she finally heard Parrot's warm laugh and Babette's happy giggle, she relaxed.

"Hey, look who decided to show up!" Parrot exclaimed, motioning her to take a seat on the benches around them. With all the money they raked in every week, they had enough money to be a couple of houses, but they still stuck with holing up in Dimity's apartment after spending the days out here. Mostly to let Parrot annoy her, of course.

"How much did you make today?" Dimity inquired as she accepted a small piece of bread from Ditto.

Ditto's eyebrows turned downwards in thought as he quietly counted up the profit of the day. Out of all of them, he was the only one to have a trace of District Three still in him. The rest of them may've well been from the Capitol with their lack of pure knowledge.

"It's going to come up near seven hundred," Dimity said, at first doubtful, before nodding sturdily. _Double checking, _as he called it.

The group let out a couple of hollers before Parrot spoke out.

"C'mon, let's crash for the night. Some of us still have Reapings to attend," he said with a small gesture of his head towards Dimity.

"Some of us? It's all of us, Par. All of us but you," Babette commented as she tore into a chicken wing. Dimity couldn't help but wonder how this pretty girl could eat so… much.

"Oh, right. I'm working with a bunch of babies," he chuckled playfully. That earned him a slap from Babette and a light punch in the arm from Chum.

"One year, that's all you've got," Chum sputtered. Parrot shrugged before rising and stretching a bit.

"Whatever, children. Let's go. Don't want you to need to go sleepy-bye in the Reaping!" he said happily. He never could take anything seriously. A light laugh chorused around the group as they finished their quick meal trudging towards the apartment.

The doorman greeted them rapidly; the poor guy knew who they were. The Thieves. They ascended the staircase quickly before Dimity inserted the key and opened the door.

She nearly collapsed at the sight of a bed. Well. Not _nearly._ She did. Babette followed suit, leaving the boys to bicker for the couch. Eventually, they settled on Ditto taking the couch, Chum was assigned to take it in two hours, and Parrot was left for the floor.

Dimity glanced at the back of Parrot's head. His brown hair gently curled at its tips, and she knew on the other side was a pair of mismatched eyes. Looking at the guy, she felt happy.

The two of them were never more than friends, but Parrot was so loveable, it was like a child staring at a purple unicorn.

With the thought of Parrot with a gleaming horn on his head and four legs in his usual colorful getup, Dimity dozed off into an awfully weird dream.

* * *

**Dimity Tallieur**

**Tallieur Apartment**

**May 22****nd****, 7:46 A.M. One hour, fifteen minutes until the Reaping.**

Dimity's brain gently forced her eyelids to open, despite a pounding headache that demanded another hour or two in bed. The pitter patter of the shower woke her up. Next to her, Babette snored softly, and Chum lay peacefully on the couch. Ditto was curled up in a blanket-ball on the floor. She glanced over, expecting Parrot, but he wasn't there.

_Obviously, she thought. Who else would be showering this early?_ Eventually, the shower stopped.

Groggily, she clambered up. After the weird purple dots Ditto had told were called… Oh, never mind. After the illusive vision trick left, she steadied her footing before making her way to the bathroom.

She knocked on the door quietly, muttering something along the lines of 'I need to use the bathroom.'

The door swooshed open, revealing Parrot with nothing but a towel loosely around his waist.

Honestly, she tried really hard not to stare. But Parrot was well built, tanned, and…

"Dimity? Are you awake? Do you need some more sleep?" he said, waving his hand in front of her eyes, whistling 'cukoo-cukoo.'

"I'm fine, just sleepy," she mustered, blushing furiously. By this time, she'd shoved passed Parrot, accidentally brushing her arm against his skin. He felt smooth…

She snarled at herself before closing the door. Quickly, Dimity pulled the blouse and pants Babette had gotten for her as a special celebration of another year out of the Games. Well, hopefully.

She flicked the shower back to life, immediately warmed by it. Dimity cleansed her hair and body as quickly as she could before hopping out into the frigid air.

Another upside of District Three. Even with its massive pollution, the place was like a freezer.

She threw on the baby-blue blouse and gray pants. Combing her hair was a lost cause, but she still tried. Her black hair formed small knots that she quite painfully removed. Ouch.

As she decided against make-up, a knock quietly pressed against the door. Dimity opened the door to find Parrot, still only in his towel with a slight smile.

"Hey, you look great. Now if you wouldn't mind, my clothes are in there, and I'm freezing," he stated. Oops. With a light laugh, she grabbed his white shirt, black pants and tie. He lightheartedly returned a sloppy grin as he sauntered into the bathroom.

Dimity tried not to stare at his back. She failed.

* * *

**Calloway Grace**

**District Three Town Hall**

**May 22****nd****, 9:59 A.M. 1 minute until the Reaping.**

Cal was pretty sure the mayor had started stalking, but then again, nobody listened to him. Loosely, he was going over the next quiz in Mr. Junifer's class on the Arizonian and Nevadan Theorems with Aron.

"You know, I think Mr. Ari just made that theorem because his two speed pedometers were pointed at different things," Aron said suddenly. Cal chuckled quietly, they all knew that. Of course, Junifer was deluding himself with this stupid theory, but there was 77% chance Cal would avoid both trouble and a bad grade if he just pretended. The statistics matter, you know.

The mayor stepped back with a thick cough. A flamboyant, blue woman entered the stage. She had swirls that resembled plastic waves rolling down her arms, legs, chest, and the swirls even made an appearance in her hair. This was new.

Cal couldn't help but consider how odd she was here. She had a 16% chance of fitting in better in District Four.

"Hello, my fellow earthlings. I, as you know, am Brinka Kion, here to bring you the wonderful chance of representing your district in the Annual Hunger Games! Let's begin!" she finished with a squeal before stepping with poise to the girls' bowl.

"Oo. What a beautiful name. We have a… Di-mitee? Talleyor? Dimity Tallieur?"

He glanced at the girl quietly. Despite having the escort completely ruin her name, which is usually a 15% chance for every tribute, the girl stepped up with precision. He couldn't help but notice her clothes and face. She so greatly resembled a baby… Only a 2% chance with a 15 year old!

"Wonderful! Let's move onto the men," she continued. It was hard not to notice how forced she looked. The woman used to serve District Four, but after a spot opened up, she greedily took it. She didn't know what she was leaving. The Careers for a bunch of technicians. Not the wisest trade.

She delicately took the first slip, and Cal closed his eyes, praying once more. Please don't say Ca-

"Calloway Grace!"

Yeah, that. Wait. Had he just been reaped? Tears immediately welled up in his eyes, and he looked at Aron for reassurance. One year, he'd had the same thing happen. Even though his name wasn't called, he thought it was. Surely this was the same, _surely._

But when he looked at Aron, there was only sadness in his eyes. The realization dawned on him lightly. With balled fists, he approached the stage, viciously fending off tears until they reached a limit and broke off.

And just like that, Calloway Grace fell apart.

* * *

**Dimity Tallieur**

**District Three Justice Building**

**May 22****nd****, 10:16 A.M. 16 minutes after the Reaping.**

Well this sucked. Dimity inhaled shallow breaths, feeling as if someone had stolen all her oxygen. Her rapid breaths broke off into rapid sobs as she curled up in the love-chair she'd settled in.

She was slightly conscious of her district partner wailing in the room next to her; just the same way she'd distantly been aware the escort screwed up her name. But that's all she could be. Slightly aware. This would all fade away soon… like a dream.

The door creaked open, and footsteps dully approached her. Based on their speed, Dimity realized they should have been more than dull, but she couldn't be sure.

"Babyface!" Her head spun at her nickname. Quite a vivid dream.

"You're not real," she said simply. She'd yet to turn around.

"Dimity? It's us!" At this point, Dimity gave into curiosity, expecting perhaps a group of ducks with her friends' voice to be there, but the sight horrified her. Because they were her friends.

And this wasn't a dream.

She started bawling the second she realized. Babette quickly hugged her, falling into the same waterworks trance. Chum and Ditto both stood tall, with dampened eyes. Eventually, the two of them also ended around her in a bear hug.

"I should've… should've done something," Babette cried out. "It's my fault!" Babette was now sobbing hysterically, almost enough to match Dimity.

For the remainder of the time, they remained huddled and in a state of pure depression. When the Peacekeeper came in, Chum looked as if he was about to roundhouse kick him, but Dimity shooed him away.

"It's okay," she sniveled weakly, "I'll be back soon." Even to her, it sounded weak.

Sobbing, her three friends walked out. Only then did she account for Parrot's absence.

Dimity vaguely remembered Parrot teaching her how to shield off attacks from an invader. She hurriedly formed the armadillo position she'd acquired so long ago.

Once again, she hadn't seen, but heard her new visitor first. She immediately expected Parrot to be here, to speak with her. But the voice that spoke out was older than Parrot's. Darker. And most notably, a woman's.

"Dimity," the voice said. It sounded broken, brittle. Whoever it was didn't seem familiar. Dimity slowly exited her shell only to immediately regret it. She recognized this woman. She grew up hating this woman. She grew up without her.

She was looking at her mother.

Dimity's sad state vanished when it finally encountered her mother, who'd not only allowed, but supported her grandmother's decision to get rid of her to save money. Now, all she felt was anger. Blind, hot-white rage that had been bubbling within her for the years of neglect she'd gone through. All she saw was red.

An animalistic snarl came from the back of Dimity's throat, forcing her biological mother to step back. She was obviously on the brink of tears, which she had no right to be on. Only now, when her daughter was going to be whisked away did she remember her. The tense, hot silence remained between the two of them before her mother continued.

"Dimity, I'm sorry. I looked for you the day after, I really did. But you were nowhere! I asked the factory, the slums, and the school. But nobody had seen you and I just assumed you'd died. I'm so sorry," her mother said in frantic phrases.

Dimity remained still.

Then she started to scream.

Afterwards, she'd forgotten the words she'd said, but she knew the majority of what she said.

"WHERE WERE YOU WHEN I NEEDED YOU?! YOU ONLY COME WHEN I'M ABOUT TO DIE?! IS THAT IT? BECAUSE THAT STUPID WHORE OF A GRANDMOTHER TOLD YOU TO?! ARE YOU STILL LISTENING TO HER? AND HOW ARE THE TWO LOW-LIFE MONGRELS DOING?! WHOSE LIVES HAVE THEY RUINED?"

The next thing she was fully aware of was the Peacekeeper lugging her mother out. She looked at the glass mirror in the corner of the room in horror. Her hair was thrown everywhere, like a monster's. Her glare was malicious; her cheeks a bright shed of red.

"Dimity?" Great. Another person that will probably kill her emotions.

She turned to see Parrot, whose cheeks were splotchy, and his eyes fragile.

"Hey," he murmured, sitting down next to her. He quietly placed his hand on hers, and, once again, she began to cry into his chest. It's a good thing. Getting rid of all her tears now.

"It's okay, Dim. You'll be out of there in no time," he said, but his voice lost power at the end, resulting in tears streaming down his equally red face.

Somewhere far away, a Peacekeeper knocked on the door; only one minute left. Something happened in Parrot, because he stood up so fast Dimity almost fell off the chair. She just regained her vision when she felt him. His lips on hers.

Shock, ecstasy. That pretty much summed up how she felt. Very slowly, Parrot scooted back, pushing his forehead so that their faces were only inches apart.

"You'll be fine, okay? Home in no time," he whispered, as a Peacekeeper came in, grabbing him by the arm. She cried out, with a hand extended like a child, begging for another minute with him. Just sixty seconds to revel in Parrot. But her voice was frozen. Her heart frozen.

But one thing still functioned properly. Her mind. And all her mind could do was ravage. It was angry. Angry at the Capitol, angry at her mother, angry at everyone.

Somewhere far away, a cry broke out. She decided it wasn't hers, that it was her district partner's. She was angry at him, too.

All she could see was red. All she wanted to see was red. All she wanted to do was red. All she was going to do was make the world red.

* * *

_A/N: Okay. That was long. Anyhow, I feel like I need to clear this up. If a tribute has a Goodbye, it's not because they're destined to go far or anything (though they might), it's because their Goodbyes develop them. A tribute that doesn't get a Goodbye session simply didn't do anything unexpected or spectacular in their Goodbyes. Simple as that._

_IMPORTANT_

_As some of you may've noticed, D6 Male slot is open due to scheduling issues. Don't send a tribute in unless I've specifically asked you. I don't want to be bombarded with tributes, and right now, I'm after people who don't have any tributes in at all._

_Beta-hunting is much appreciated._

_And to the questions-_

_Who do you like better and why?_

_How was the portrayal of the characters?_

_Who's your tribute from Districts 1-3?_

_Do you have critique for me? (Remember, I really appreciate critique. Seriously.)_

_Do you guys have a whole week off? I've gotten reports of submitters with a whole week off. Just to say, I only have the weekend and Monday off, so I've got a little extra time to write, but not much._

_Now we go off topic. Who read The House of Hades already? If you haven't, go read it. It was fliptastically amazing. NICO, dude. NICO._

_Before I spoil anything, I must leave. I would suspect D4 to come this weekend or very early next week._


	6. District Four: The Crazed and the Forced

_A/N: So we have some big news today._

_First off, I'd like all of you to welcome PeenissandClato to the Blood Splatters team (which is really the two of us and all of you people). Please give a big hand to them and BecauseofKillianJones for introducing me to them._

_That's a huge victory; now let's talk about update rates. At this point, I'm beginning to look past the Reapings and all of the fluff in the beginning and into the blood and soul of the Games. I'm deciphering Bloodbaths and glancing occasionally at a tribute, seeing if I can identify the characteristics that could potentially make them a Victor._

_Because of this, I'll be spending a bit more time plotting than writing, so updates will slow ever so slightly. _

_That said, I have chosen my Bloodbaths. They were measured heavily on the submitter's review rate, believability, and the possibility of development in the tribute. If you haven't reviewed… I suggest you begin, or your tribute may be transferred onto this list._

_I've also selected my Top Seven. They were measured on the same material as the Bloodbaths._

_As of now, these are drafts and unfinished, but the majority of the tributes will remain this way unless a significant change in a submitter or my opinion of the tribute occurs._

_Thank you very much to those of you who reviewed, and let me tell you, please continue on throughout the story even if your tribute is killed. It lets me know I have an audience._

_Remember, critique is highly appreciated here. _

_Without further ado, we have the highly anticipated Mizuko Hali and Harleen O'Connell from two of my most revered submitters, Call Me Fin and TheTypeWritter001._

* * *

**Harleen O'Connell **

**District Four Pier **

**May 13****th****, 4:37 A.M. Nine days, five hours, twenty-three minutes until the Reaping.**

Harleen was uncharacteristically lazy. Her gutting knife lay, stained with several layers of blood from various victims. All fish, of course. If she had it her way, some human blood with be there also.

_Human blood_… _Oh, so fresh…_ She'd seen a good amount of it in the Training Center the previous day.

So many talented killers had been denied the chance to enter the Games yesterday. But she had prevailed. She had a feeling she knew why.

Not that it mattered. Coven Wares was never going to be anything. The girl was pudgy, stupid, and inadequately trained. All Harleen had done was take the girl out of a pointless future, in front of a very large crowd.

To her surprise, nobody had called a Peacekeeper. Her actions remained unknown to the public; she believed she'd heard a trainee say the judges covered it by saying Coven had an accident. How adorable. The fat princess accidentally cut herself into several little pieces. _Undoubtedly, _the family believed that.

A cruel smile spread across Harleen's dark complexion. She twirled her six-inch blade with affection, the blade had taken more lives than Harleen could imagine. All of which were made taken by her hands.

Coven hadn't been the first person. No, Harleen wouldn't have soiled her first true kill with a buffoon like her. Her first kill was her own sister.

Harleen and Jasmine. Two polar opposites, they would say. Jasmine had a future, a bright one, while the other was a waste of O'Connell blood.

How wrong they were. Jasmine couldn't even defend herself when Harleen caught her. It'd been too easy. Jasmine had been swimming with a friend, and all Harleen had to do was tug. Tug and drive her knife deep into her heart.

There had been other kills that nobody could trace back to her, but nothing would ever replace the thrill she had with Jasmine. Blood you've wanted to spill was always the most satisfying to see.

Harleen gently traced the blade along her own skin, leaving a thin line of red against her hand. She dipped her hand into the green water, until a fish finally took a nibble. Instantly, the catfish was pinned to the pier with the butt of a blade and plank of wood.

Harleen's maniacal laugh echoed deep into the town as she began to slice the small equestrian into pieces of sushi, occasionally licking the red liquid from her fingers.

* * *

**Harleen O'Connell**

**District Four Training Center**

**May 22****nd****, 9:49 A.M. Eleven minutes until the Reaping.**

Harleen attentively watched the television as it played re-runs of the earlier Districts. District Two brought the two usual fighters, though one seemed a bit short. Perhaps it was the camera's angle. But that wasn't what interested her. It was the District One boy.

Just last year, District One sent a girl, Pasiphae Jacoby, as their representative. The ditzy, thirteen year old girl that had volunteered causing the district to go through a state of angered chaos had won the Hunger Games. District Four should've seen it coming.

The girl, as it turned out, was a murderer out for blood. She slew the majority of the tributes in the arena, attaining the highest amount of kills by a Victor. Thirteen kills. A thirteen year old took thirteen kills. Including both District Four tributes.

So as Harleen watched a small, fourteen-year old boy step onto the podium, she sneered. What kind of fools were they? What kind of fools did they think District Four had?

Once, it was a clever trick. Twice, it was a dead-giveaway. The District One boy was a set-up.

A musical bit of maniacal laughter sputtered out of Harleen as she ran through a superbly long list of painful deaths when it hit her. She couldn't just go right out and kill the bastard. Her alliance would turn on her.

Once again, Harleen jostled her arsenal of strategies and pain, but to no avail. There was no way to kill this boy without practically killing herself in the process.

"To hell with him," a confident voice called out. Harleen instantly stood straight at the voice. There were very few people on this earth she respected, but this man was one of them. Gavin Drown, Victor of the 18th Hunger Games. He also served as her father.

"He'll be a Bloodbath. I'm sure of it," Gavin said, no sign of doubt in his voice. Hearing her personal trainer speak her beliefs reassured her slightly. "District One won't be stealing another victory this year, will they?"

"No, sir," Harleen said, her back erect, hands politely folded in at her waist. Now, Gavin was calm. In a moment, he'd be slicing through her with a sword. She'd prefer not getting chopped to pieces by Gavin Drown.

After the incident with her sister, Gavin had adopted her. A weird, fatherly figure that occasionally slices through you with a katana after your sister's murder that you committed was surely the method to a bright, mentally stable future for Harleen. Definitely.

The screen jolted to the girl, Rose, she believed. The girl did not volunteer. A Reaped tribute out of District One was the same as a Reaped tribute out of District Twelve. Useless.

Instantly, Gavin spoke her thoughts. "Keep her out of the alliance. I don't want to see a prissy from One, much less a _Reaped _prissy from One."

Harleen nodded, her eyes and mouth maliciously growling at the sight of her other allies. The District Two kids. Once again, she regarded them as average Careers. She read the tributes' body language, muscle build, and nothing unusual. Both were trained properly. Both had to be chosen. Now, both had to die.

Harleen, once again, was scanning her array of deaths, considering drowning, burning, then drowning in acid water when Gavin's hand made contact with her back. She immediately jolted into a fighting stance, ready for battle even in the dumb floral skirt Gavin's wife insisted she wear.

Gavin rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Relax, Harleen. I was just saying it's Reaping time."

"Physical contact wasn't necessary, _sir_," she said tantalizingly. She'd grown accustomed to Gavin's dislike of her sarcasm, but she knew today was special. Today was the day Gavin got to win again, practically. And for that, Gavin would take her crap, if only for the day.

Gavin snarled, but as Harleen assumed, did not strike. Instead he made an ancient gesture- flicking her off, before trotting out. Harleen trailed at about two feet to keep a safe distance just in case Gavin lost it a bit. He didn't.

As they signed in, Gavin took to the stage, giving Harleen one fleeting look of determination. Harleen remained at the check-in, considering her adoptive father's true feelings for her. Pride? Annoyance? She pondered only momentarily, for in a moment, the Peacekeeper signing in possible tributes barked a stern order to leave. She shot the ancient gesture Gavin had just sent her way before stomping into her age group. The stage was so near her, she could feel its radiance of power. She could reach out and touch her future as a Victor. It was so simple.

She instinctively glanced around her, scanning her possible competition, only to be reminded that she had none. This was her moment that nobody would steal from her. Her infamous bit of laughter croaked out of her throat, gaining several fearful pairs of eyes, and also several feet of space that other girls made by scooting away from her. See? A good laugh could do anything.

Mayor Ingot, a strange, colorful man that was obviously from the Capitol, took the microphone, sloppily slobbering gibberish into the device. On several occasions, the screech that alerted the speaker he was too close roared through several amps, causing the entire district to cover their ears in agony. Except for Harleen. The sound reminded her of slain children's cries. The beauty of it all…

When the mayor finally concluded his speech, District Four roared to life, not in awe of his speaking, rather, they were immensely pleased it ceased to exist for another year. The crowd reached a new level of sound when Cobalt Arlin took to the stage.

The escort of District Four for fourteen years beckoned at the Career group, feigning to be unimpressed with the unbelievable level of noise booming through the square. Of course, the trainees and non-trainees alike yelled and screamed at the top of their lungs, showing their bloody excitement. It wasn't long before Cobalt actually took to the mic, laughing with a plastic clarity.

"Welcome, District Four, to the 23rd Annual Hunger Games!" She yelled, arms extended, motioning for the district to burst to life once more. They complied happily. The screeching was endless, powerful.

"Now, District Four. It has come time for us to select our two representatives who will not only participate, but win this year's Games. Am I right?" she called out, cupping her ear to the crowd. A burning yell fired to Cobalt, pleasing the Capitolite for her success.

"Magnificent! Now, let's select a Victor," Cobalt hummed. She walked to the girls' bowl with a high head and snatched a piece on the surface of the bowl.

"Penelope Ka-," Cobalt began. As the selected tribute's last name remained half-spoken, Harleen's crazed voice seared through the crowd in four quick, defiant words.

"I volunteer as tribute!" The crowd burst into chaos, insanely satisfied with Harleen's choice. Of course they were pleased, any child of Gavin Drown's was sure to win. Harleen, herself was convinced of her own victory when Cobalt asked her for her name. She remained convinced when Cobalt sauntered to the boys' bowl. She remained convinced when a voice volunteered. But when the voice finally connected with the boy's face, she was no longer convinced.

She was, for the first time, scared of a shirtless boy in swimming shorts.

* * *

**Mizuko Hali**

**District Four Pier**

**May 13****th****, 12:36 P.M. Nine days, Three hours, and twenty four minutes until the Reaping.**

"You dirty bastard!" Rain exclaimed, furiously swatting Mizuko with a rock-hard mud ball. The pair, though they were both well into their teenage years, were playing mud tag.

"Gotcha!" A childish laugh fired from Miz, who'd nailed Rain from roughly twenty yards with a mud ball.

The two of them continued their little game for what felt like centuries while the majority of the kids their age were training. Miz and Rain still ranked first in their age groups, respectively.

For hours, they flung mud, swam through the ocean, and caught fish. The duo had agreed to spend as much time together before the selection, where their fates were decided entirely by judges. Of course, that test didn't affect the two, either. Both had agreed to flunk out and just live here. It was so simple.

Eventually, their time elapsed, and both quickly rinsed off before making an entrance into the Training Center.

So many before them had walked in with high hopes of getting into the Games, yet they walked in with the opposite purpose. They aspired to fail.

Part of the reason was in their families. Both were rich beyond belief despite the fact they were both missing a parent. Without the drive for money or the need for fame, Rain and Miz had no reason to participate in the Games, though so many around them were anticipating their selection in the Games. As their fellow trainees around them sat tensely, the two laughed at fond memories of the beach and the pier.

Names were called at varying speeds. On one occasion, a trainee entered the selection viewing for less than a minute. Another was timed for exactly thirty-two minutes. Eventually, Rain was called, and she skipped into the viewing for a measly three minutes.

Immediately after, the monotone announcer called for Mizuko. He ambled into the viewing room, where seven judges sat, glaring daggers through and around him. He carelessly walked to the trident section, where he heaved a couple of weapons and lodged them while experimentally changing the speed and aim. Overall, exactly two out of the ten tridents landed on the target.

A pleased grin crossed his face as the first judge began to dismiss him. "Thank you Mr. Hali, we've seen enough."

With a slight bow, he began to exit, but was tempted to stop as the judges began to whisper furiously. Most likely, they were discussing how disappointing he was, but… somehow he doubted it.

Confused about his own instincts, he exited the building and met with a content Rain. Her grin was contagious, and soon, he'd forgotten all about his worries.

The two walked around the ocean, nonchalantly chatting about how badly they'd ruined their viewings when the going Training Centre's bell rang out, signaling the final decision. Together, the two casually walked to the Training Centre.

* * *

**Mizuko Hali**

**District Four Training Centre**

**May 13****th****, 6:35 P.M. Eight days, Fifteen hours, twenty-five minutes until the Reaping.**

"As years before us, this Training Centre serves our District by preparing our youth to claim glory in the Hunger Games. Those of you before me have been especially noted in your past years by various directors that believe you have it what it takes to win," the judge who'd dismissed Mizuko rather abruptly announced.

"However, traditions change. This year, we'll be separating our genders without information on one another until the Reaping. You are forbidden to share any of this information with anyone out of this room," he continued, his tone gradually becoming a darker, more determined tone.

With that, a chorus of disapproval lifted into the room. Several trainees stood up, defying the judge, claiming it was in the right of the trainees to know. Mizuko hadn't been paying attention, besides, he didn't even know what everyone was talking about.

In a quick movement, the judge pulled out a pistol and fired into the air, leaving a visible crack in the ceiling. A few frantic cries of fear erupted from the trainees, however most were prepared, expecting, someone to do something.

"Silence," the judge muttered. "Female trainees, follow Judge Hancock into the next room where your results will be shared." The girls obeyed.

When the entire population of female trainees left the original room, the judge, Mizuko hadn't bothered to learn his name, began his second speech. Great.

"Though we appreciate all of your charisma and willingness to support your District, we can only accept the tributes who exhibit enough talent to win the Games. I will now announce the name of our selected male tribute."

Mizuko couldn't help but roll his eyes, at the judge, at the trainees who cockily pounded their chests in expectancy of their name being called. It was stupid, really. Odds were, the tribute would die. So what if you made-

"Mizuko Hali."

-a little money? What did that do?

Wait. They just called his name. Around him, furious trainees shot up, explaining their strengths and abilities, but the judge didn't even budge. His eyes remained trained on Mizuko.

"Allow me to explain our decision," he said, sneering. "Mizuko possesses physical abilities and charm to bring sponsors. But most of all, his heritage will indefinitely help District Four take the crown this year." As it hit him, he struggled to breath. They were taking him to the Games not because of his skill, not because of his looks, but because-

"Mr. Hali is the son of Mags Hali, Victor of the Ninth Hunger Games."

Mizuko's world had just split into several, misshapen pieces.

* * *

**Mizuko Hali**

**Victor's Village, Home of Mags Hali**

**May 21****st****, 9.43 P.M. Twelve hours, seventeen minutes until the Reapings.**

Despite the judge's crystal-clear orders, Mizuko spilled the results to his mother and Rain the second he got home.

The hardest part had been telling his mother. Explaining to her that he would die because of her was unbearable. The strong, agile woman she was faltered, aging to an old, weak woman, exposed to the power of those around her.

A close second had been telling Rain. Rain, who'd given up so much to support Mizuko countless times, had also fallen apart. The news changed her, as well. She was no longer the carefree girl with free-falling hair. She became a focused, angry girl with a deep hatred boiling inside of her. Mizuko didn't exactly like that, either.

Lastly, he knew that, despite all his efforts, he too, had changed. Mizuko could no longer be the surfer with dreams of the ocean anymore. He had changed. If not now, he would have to eventually. To get back home.

It may seem easy. Just don't volunteer. But the consequences of denying the wishes of the judges may be grave. Disregarding the judge's order to volunteer was not only suicidal, but would undoubtedly affect those he loved.

While the District couldn't touch Mags, they could surely hurt Rain, an orphan without a true family.

So, he would go. For Rain.

"_Mizuko Hali."_

The judge's orders lingered uncomfortably in Miz's mind.

His legs waded in the dark, briny water. He sat in his swim trunks, lightly tracing the wood of the pier when a voice called out to him.

"Miz, you need to come in. If you're going… there, you need to rest," his mother murmured, with no sign of tears in her eyes. He nodded, avoiding his mother's gaze to keep what little sanity the two of them had left within them.

His light footsteps made their way into the pristine Victor's Village, where the second house belonged to his family.

After ascending the staircase, Mizuko drifted off in a dreamless, pitch-black sleep.

* * *

**Mizuko Hali**

**Victor's Village, Home of Mags Hali**

**May 22****nd****, 9:15 A.M. Forty-five minutes until the Reaping.**

He hadn't planned on going to the pier. But it was fitting, saying goodbye not only to the people he loved, but the places, too.

Either that, or Mizuko had already started to lose his mind. He preferred the former.

In a rushed sprint, he shed his black suit and white dress pants, and hopped into a pair of swim shorts. In the short jog down to the pier, memories began flooding back to him.

His mother teaching him how to swim, the first fish he'd caught, the first time he met Rain.

That was what he had to say good-bye to. In essence, he was saying goodbye to his happiness.

He remained on the white sand for longer than he'd thought, reminiscing about the past, and painfully letting each memory go. He felt like someone was filing through his brain and stabbing at it, gleefully destroying his cheerfulness, destroying who he was.

When he reached the memory where he and Rain were chucking mud, merely a week ago, he was bawling like a baby. Sniffling, he wiped his tears as he let go of the last happy memory he had of his best friend. Distantly, he heard someone calling, but it was as if a ghost were calling him; he didn't actually hear it.

Just as his tears dried and his mind was left a barren blank, his watch beeped.

_That's odd, it's supposed to do that every hour…_ And the next hour was 10. Which was when the Reaping was. Huh, his watch must've been broken; he'd only been here for a handful of minutes!

Right?

Frantically, Mizuko checked his watch, which read in large, green numbers: 10:01. Crap.

He hopped up, sprinting furiously for the Town Square, which was a good five minute run from his pier. Part of him was surprised no Peacekeepers had gone looking for no-shows, but he quickly realized that this was District Four. Who didn't go to the Reaping?

He reached the Town Square just as the female tribute ascended the stage. At first, he couldn't get a good look at her, but Miz quickly recognized her as soon as the tilt of her face showed.

Harleen O'Connell.

Class-act creep. Murderer of… countless _people._ And she hadn't even gotten into the Games yet! Miz definitely felt that much more demoralized. Cobalt Arlin, who'd obviously revved up the crowd by the way they were panting, sashayed to the boys' bowl and delicately yanked out a name.

"Olive Doyle!" Cobalt called happily. A twelve-year old slowly stepped out; he didn't look as if he'd trained before. A weighty sigh passed Mizuko's lips as he called out with the most power he could muster.

"I volunteer!"

* * *

_A/N: There was District Four, hopefully with less mechanical errors with my new beta. Everyone, give one more round of applause to PeenissandClato for their work!_

_Anyways, we have questions to answer._

_Who do you like more and why?_

_How were these two portrayed?_

_Do you have critique for me? (Yes is appreciated more than no)._

_Hopefully, I can squeeze District Five before the long weekend ends. Hopefully._

_-Bobo_


	7. District Five: The Dark and the Snarky

_A/N: There's not too much to say today._

_I'm having a slight scheduling issue with the District Six Male spot, but don't you worry, it's almost solved._

_Remember, reviews make me write faster and probably will keep your tribute alive for an extended period of time! At the wonderful suggestion of The Koala of Doom, I'll be leaving the ages of our tributes at the top of the chapter. To another wonderful submitter, Elim9, who pointed out Miz's age… that will be cleared up in the future. Muahahaha. _

_Here are Harley Fitz and Aurora Hence, created by Jay110 and TheTypeWriter001. Harley is eighteen while Aurora is seventeen._

* * *

**Aurora Hence**

**District Five Mechanic Shop**

**May 19****th****, 7:19 P.M. Two days, fourteen hours, forty-one minutes until the Reaping.**

"Gah!" a spew of dark, black oil trickled down her face as the infernal automobile once again denied to accept Aurora's newer, cleaner engine. The majority of her district served Panem as scientists, testers, but her family worked as the mechanics. Cars, clocks, lasers, you name it, they could fix it.

"Stupid, good for nothing little piece of-" Aurora began, muttering viciously as her wrench buried itself into the exterior of the hood.

"Aury! That's money you're playing with! Try not to crush anything!" her father exclaimed. A quick glare his way sent him a step back, but he advanced. Eventually, he reached her side, peering into the vehicle, then her, covered in black oil. Then, back to the vehicle. She tried not to roll her eyes.

"Engine 67 won't fit in this model. The extricate wiring'll make it shoot oil the second the engine touches it," Aurora commented while circling the vehicle slowly, trying to identify which damn engine would actually fit. Her father nodded, but she could tell he wasn't listening.

That was the problem with her family. Nobody listened to _baby _Aurora. They were all too caught up with Weiran, the racecar driver in the Capitol, or Chevy, who'd become a national model. Nobody cared about Aurora, the humble technician.

Once again, Aurora found one of her tools, this time it was her screwdriver, submerged in a solid surface, which was her workbench.

"If you keep stabbing everything, I'm going to make you start paying for it all," her father called while deep inside the trunk of the car. Aurora laughed before turning back to the car with her arms crossed.

Her father was taking a crack at the impossible automobile, his tool belt flying as he shoved various objects into various portions of the car.

"It's not going to work," Aurora sang teasingly. Her father honestly though that she couldn't have figured it out? If she couldn't do it, nobody could.

"There!" he exclaimed, pointing to the now-alive vehicle. Aurora's mouth drooped; anger in her stomach reaching her eyes.

Quickly, she recovered herself. In a moment, she was scowling, her hands balled behind her back, where her father couldn't see her.

"Luck shot," she mumbled, halfway to the doorway.

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetie," her father said nonchalantly.

A sneer made its way to Aurora's lips, her hands trembling slightly. Where was a good screwdriver when she needed one?

* * *

**Aurora Hence**

**District Five Merchants' Street**

**May 21****st****, 8:50 P.M. Thirteen hours, ten minutes until the Reaping.**

Aurora laughed. For the first time in a couple of weeks, she laughed.

Kerum was juggling half a dozen flaming bowling pins and one just caught his black hair. It wasn't exactly _black _now.

Her large group of friends had caused so much commotion when Kerum set himself alight, nobody even thought about getting him to a hospital. Or a bucket of water. Oops.

_Friends, _Aurora thought loosely. _Would a friend crack up at you while you caught on fire?_

Aurora pushed the thought away as one of the older boys called for some booze. Alcohol was passed around, excited hoots came from several guys as they chugged the stuff like water.

"Can't be that different from oil," she said aloud, gaining a couple of laughs. Some kid who was already red in the face assuredly patted her on the back, babbling for her to drink.

"Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!" the group began chanting like some ancient ritual. With a quick shrug, Aurora tipped the glass to her mouth.

And then spat it right out. Alcohol was disgusting. A round of laughs passed around the group as she continued to spit up every last bit of the liquid fire she'd just sipped. It tasted like oil, which Aurora was very used to tasting, with hints of rat feces and dog urine.

And yet, as the night grew, her glass was empty. Then refilled. Then empty again. The cycle repeated until several Peacekeepers came, arresting kids like crazy. Her blurry vision led her across the street, towards her home when she heard footsteps rapidly gaining on her.

Aurora sped up, eyeing the streets with something she could use, and she saw it. A glass, half full of booze. She bent over, scooping it up as the Peacekeeper reached her, his handcuffs already hooked to her left arm.

"I wouldn't- wouldn't do that if I- I were you," she blubbered sloppily. The Peacekeeper ignored her, spinning her so that he could get her other arm.

With great speed for a heavily intoxicated person, Aurora sent her glass flying into the head of the unknowing Peacekeeper. With a frantic craze in her, she fumbled for the man's keys, unlocking herself, though she dropped the keys several times. In a moment, she was halfway to her house.

Aurora could still remember the sound his head made when it split against the sidewalk.

**Aurora Hence**

**Hence Household**

**May 22****nd****, 4:15 A.M. Five hours, forty-five minutes until the Reaping.**

Aurora reached her home, grateful to be alive and still a free woman. Fumbling, she approached the door, which swung open before she touched it.

"Weird," she said groggily.

Someone grabbed her by the shoulder and threw her inside.

"Aurora Hemming Hence, I've been worried sick, and," the person, Aurora assumed her mother from the tone, sniffed the air, quickly disgusted. "Were you drinking?! Aurora, you're seventeen for God's sake, what were you thinking?"

While her mother continued to angrily question her, Aurora started laughing. If she closed one eye half-way, her vision made it look like her mother split in half at the tip of her head. That was funny.

The next thing she felt was a hand slapping her. Ow. That wasn't funny.

"Aurora Hence. I'm ashamed of you. To think, you're the sister of Chevy and Weiran. They'd be so disappointed in you," her mother sneered.

At this, Aurora perked up. Her vision cleared, her thoughts racing. The one thing that could take her out of any whack was her anger.

"And where are they? Where'd they go? If they care so much about me, why are they never home, huh? Always grinding some Capitol whore? On a pole for a bunch of horny old Capitol guys? They sound like responsible kids," Aurora barked, no longer on the floor. Now, she was up in her mother's face, the scent of alcohol causing her mother to turn away.

"They don't give a shit about me, and I couldn't care less about them," Aurora whispered, only audible to her mother.

Aurora, a heap of sour odor and red anger, marched to her bedroom.

* * *

**Aurora Hence**

**Hence Household**

**May 22****nd****, 8:32 A.M. One hour, twenty-eight minutes until the Reaping.**

Even though she'd nearly been arrested and yelled at, Aurora felt like she'd learned a couple of things that could help her in life. For one, a glass of wine could double for a sick melee weapon. Two, the scent of alcohol was a pretty good person-repellant. And lastly, no matter how bad alcohol felt going in, it would be two times worse going out.

Yes, she'd remember that last one.

Clutching the toilet seat, another round of vomit poured out of her, like gasoline out of that impossible car she'd been working on.

What round was she on? The sixth? Seventh? She'd lost count after about the third time she released the wretched liquid into her poor toilet.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Aurora felt as if her stomach was completely and utterly empty. She backed up against the tile wall, burying her head between her knees. She remained like this, waiting to feel the need to regurgitate, but it never came. After a while, Aurora trusted herself enough to stand.

Very slowly, Aurora rose, a wave a nausea going over her. She pushed it away, swallowing several times to keep whatever was left in her inside. She turned to a mirror, and another wave of disgust went through her.

She looked like a murder victim. Her vibrant, brown hair was covered in vomit and reeked of booze. Her clothes were torn; splashes of various liquids and bodily fluids covered her.

She shed the worn outfit, tossing it into the trash. She walked into the shower, and blasted the heat.

Even in her aristocratic family compared to the others in District Five, hot water wasn't available. She stood in the shower before quietly sliding to the floor. Eventually, the scent would come off.

The alcohol had numbed her. Numbed her anger, for a while, at least. Maybe it's a good idea to keep a few bottles around.

Her mind started contradicting itself, considering the Peacekeeper she might've killed. Hopefully, her drunken state mistook a simple scrape for a split head.

Lost in thought, she didn't hear her father yelling until he was practically banging on her door.

"Aurora! Reaping's in fifteen!"

She blinked, oblivious to the noise until it repeated itself several times.

Once she finally got it through her skull, she flicked the water off, and pulled on the blue hand-me-down dress from Chevy. Once again, anger kicked in.

Her sister was richer than anyone in Five, yet she refuses to actually go buy her own kin a dress? Pathetic.

This time, her comb was deep inside a wall.

Nevertheless, she'd just thrown away her only other presentable outfit, so she threw it on and clumsily applied a speck of make-up to her eyes before walking out.

There, her parents were waiting. The iciness in the air alerted her that news had spread while she was throwing up. Great.

"What?" she said blankly.

Silence settled in the room for a while, her family looking at her in frustration. Finally, her mother spoke broadly.

"Aurora, we'll deal with you later. The Reaping begins soon." She stood from the lavish chair, straightening her black dress in the process. Her father followed suit.

Trailing by a good ten yards, Aurora walked at the same pace an elephant would walk. Families glanced at her and turned away.

_I must look so hung-over, _she thought, gently bringing her left arm to pinch her bridge. There, she saw the cuffmark the Peacemaker had made.

Had that man really died? Had she really killed him? No, it must've been the booze. She was drunk and the man probably had no more than a scratch, surely. Surely.

As she neared the town hall, thoughts of the man she might've killed plagued her. As much as she convinced herself that he was alive, small details began to surface. The scent of the booze mixed with this metallic odor that could've only been blood. The sight of glass mixed in red liquid that was two shades too dark to be wine. The sound of a head splitting open.

_Thud. _

A cold shiver ran down her spine as she walked to the sign in, holding out her wrist impatiently. The Peacekeeper took her blood monotonously until she glanced at the name that popped up. The woman paused at the name, then her. Then her left wrist.

Aurora stood, dumbfounded of what the woman wanted with her.

"You may go," the woman stuttered, pointing in the general direction of the roped section for seventeen year olds. Aurora nodded and walked away.

She had looked at her wrist. As if she expected something to be there. Aurora insecurely wrapped her right hand around her wrist, trying to hide.

Only one thing remained in Aurora's thoughts as the mayor stepped forth to speak.

_Thud._

* * *

**Harley Fitz**

**Streets of District Five**

**May 20****th****, 11:13 A.M. One day, twenty-two hours, forty-seven minutes until the Reaping.**

Hanson Yu walked, unknowingly setting off Harley's net trap. His foot had touched a sensor, and with his specific DNA that Harley had taken from a strand of hair, his trap came alive.

He had spent days working on this, and its complete success relied on the difference of two seconds. Harley had spent three days watching Hanson walk, finding his exact, normal speed. A temporary grin graced his face as he measured the Yu boy.

The speed was perfect.

The trap gave Hanson exactly 10.25 seconds to get to the next target, where the fun would truly begin.

And… Ah. Perfect. 10.24 seconds, but that was fine. He had given himself a two second safety net. .01 was close enough for him.

Hanson first became aware that something was wrong when a quiet _click_ signaled around him. He stopped temporarily.

Harley had prepared for that.

The Yu boy moved slowly, cautiously, which was also accounted for by Harley. Harley nearly yelled in happiness when the metal formatting held and the rope swing the Yu boy high into the air.

It could've been so much simpler, a simpler rope trap, but where was the fun in that?

Harley barked out in pleasure and pure bliss. He'd succeeded!

"Fitz! Let me down from here!" the Asian boy cried out, swatting furiously, like a fly in a spider web. His pleas for release only made Harley laugh harder.

"Oh, Hanson. This is payback, remember? You mess with me, your ass get whooped," his voice playful, despite the malice laced inside.

"Fine! Whatever! Just let me go!" the smaller boy pleaded.

"Since you asked so nicely… No." Harley pressed a button on his control pad, sending Hanson farther up the metal pole. He'd done some research. The Yu boy was scared of heights.

Now, the little one truly started sobbing. A smug smirk appeared on Harley's face as the little twerp flailed helplessly.

Turning away, Harley began the short journey back to his house. Before long, Hanson was begging for him to let him down once more.

"I'M SORRY, PLEASE LET ME DOWN!"

A feral grin spread across Harley's features. "Of course."

He snapped a different button, which actually did release the Yu boy. Rather unpleasantly.

The wire undid itself from the pole, sending Hanson around the metal pole over and over and over again. Uncontrollable laughter bubbled out of Harley as the young boy thudded painfully into the ground, yelping as he touched his shoulder. Hanson turned to Harley, seeing the wild expression, sprinted as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

* * *

**Harley Fitz**

**District Five Town Square**

**May 20****th****, 2:58 P.M. One day, nineteen hours, two minutes until the Reaping.**

While dealing with the Yu boy was entertaining, Harley wanted more. More destruction. More breaking. More fun, in his eyes.

He strolled nonchalantly to Town Square, where he could inflict several forms of _pleasure _on others. Harley unconsciously fiddled with his father's watch on the way there.

_His father…_ The man always looked at him with this glaze of disappointment in his eyes. He always reminded Harley the he loved him, but Harley knew better.

He was the black sheep in the family. His older brothers, much too old for the Reaping, were both scientists. Successful scientists.

And here he was, playing pranks on unsuspecting pedestrians. There wasn't exactly much to be proud of.

Before long, the scent of cooked meat and pastries wafted to Harley's nose, inciting a bit of saliva. Of course, being scientists and having a nurse for a mother paid well, but nearly no one in the district could afford the items sold at the merchants'.

He glanced around, trying to identify who would be the most fun to torment. The baker? The butcher? He was just about to set out for the florists' when a figure caught him. A curvy girl who winked right at him.

Harley wasn't exactly Mr. Macho, but he was handsome- in his own way. Jet black hair that spiked upwards and a slight build was apparently enough to be known as The Womanizer around town. That and breaking all of their hearts.

This one appeared to have potential for pleasure. He motioned with his head to head around the butcher's, and the girl complied. He waited, leaning comfortably on a wall.

Quickly, the girl approached, hands on her hips as she practically asked to be kidnapped.

_She's just a new level of stupid._

But kidnapping girls didn't lie in Harley's line of work, though glancing at this girl… It really should. He just wanted to mess with her head.

At that, the girl was against the wall, Harley mouth smashed against hers; her arms buried themselves in his hair. This crazy whore didn't even know his name.

After a handful of minutes, Harley leaned back, then to her ear.

In a low voice, he began whispering various sexual terms in her ear. One last bit…

"Sweetheart, one last move," he murmured quietly. He took half a step back, and then spit on her. Nailed it.

The girl, revolted, cried out indignantly, slapping him weakly, but he was already on the floor laughing. He remained cracking up on the floor long after the now saliva-faced girl trudged away. Oh, what a fun day it had been.

* * *

**Harley Fitz**

**Fitz Residence**

**May 21****st****, 12:13 P.M. Nine hours, forty-seven minutes until the Reaping.**

"Harley, the carbon chloride should be mixed with the iron oxide. No, that's magnesium! Be careful!" his brother, William exclaimed. William was a weird name, right?

His family may've been hardwired for mixing colorful liquids to make stuff happen, but this just wasn't Harley. He wasn't into watching carbon chloride cause some kind reaction with iron oxide. It didn't interest him.

But he _certainly _couldn't be a nurse. The one time his mother gave him a shot, he nearly gave her a heart attack. Well, not her. One of her patients. And perhaps 'nearly' is an understatement….

This is why he spent his time outside, bugging other kids. Because every time he walked through their front door, he felt like he didn't belong. Nobody in his family appreciated his pleasure, nor did they care about them. Truth be told, Harley was beginning to wonder if they cared about _him. _

_Stop thinking like that. They do everything for you. Wait… Me. Whatever._ His conscious whispered to him.

"Yeah," he responded aloud. "They do."

"You say somethin' Harley?" William asked. William was currently measuring the velocity of that or the volume of that. Like he always was.

"Yeah," he repeated, this time sarcastically. "They sure do." He rose, arms crossed before muttering an excuse to get out to his brother, whom appeared only half-aware his younger brother had said something.

Once he got outside, his lungs actually inhaled air. _21% oxygen, 78 % nitrogen, and traces of… Man I really do need to get out of here._

He strode rapidly to his only true companion's house. Ryker Daniels, fellow mischief maker. The defining difference between the two of them was Ryker was more of a… an athletic character, while Harley was more intellectual.

Since Ryker lived a block away, the walk in the relatively cool, spring day was short-lived.

Measuring in his head, Harley estimated two minutes, thirty-three seconds. His two different mindsets- mischievous and calculating were practically interchangeable. Harley switched sides often, occasionally using both in a task.

Ryker was sitting in his porch, chucking rocks at animals and most likely kids considering how quickly Harley had been pelted.

"Dammit, Ryker," Harley muttered. Ryker sniggered before nailing a pigeon behind him, piercing it to a tree.

"How the hell'd you do that?" Harley remarked.

"Lucky shot," he replied, scanning the terrain for anything else that moved. Harley picked up a handful of stones and began to toss them pointlessly.

The two remained in stone-throwing silence for a while before Ryker picked up a subject they never talked about.

"Reaping's tomorrow," he said as he just missed a hare. Harley glanced at Ryker uncaringly.

"What about it?"

Ryker could read Harley's tone from a mile away. He knew when he hit a sore subject.

"Nothing."

Harley began to question his own reasons for avoiding the Reaping. His family had never been affected, considerably lucky to those around them. Last year, Harley's neighbor, Leila was reaped. That didn't end too well. The sociopath girl from One killed her before Harley could count to ten.

Eventually, Harley decided. His luck had been so good, so far.

He'd always felt like talking about it would ruin iy, jynx it to the point that something _would _go wrong.

With the unpleasant feeling that he'd just ended it, Harley stopped throwing rocks.

* * *

**Harley Fitz**

**District Five Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 9:36 A.M. Twenty-four minutes until the Reaping.**

Harley had yet the shaky skin he'd picked up in his talk with Ryker, who stood directly to his left. He constantly glanced over his shoulder, feeling that someone, somewhere was going to screw his life up.

Eventually somebody had to.

Harley stood amongst a large group of eighteen year olds, most of which had backed so far away from the stage that they'd gone past some seventeen-year olds. That was understandable. This was their last year, the last thing separating them from eternal safety from the Games.

Harley kept telling himself it was his, too. For some reason, he couldn't believe his own conscious.

For the majority of the mayor's speech, Harley stood still, occasionally glancing up to see the Capitol produced video of the war.

His mind relaxed momentarily to alert itself of the escort, a man whose face was painted to resemble the earth, his body and clothing were the galaxy and other planets.

"Hello, mortals! I am Hearth Alaxy! From this point forth, I shall serve District Five as the escort! Show me your pleasure, puny souls!" he broadly stated. His voice was probably supposed to be menacing, but all Harley heard was some Capitolite who was on _especially demented _corn-flakes for breakfast.

"It is time for me, the super nova of the galaxy of District Five to pick those who will represent me." The weird man strode to the girls' bowl, and began making the "Ohmm" sound that some weird advertisements with Capitolites meditating made. Eventually, he took a slip of paper and raised it directly to the sun.

After he ceased to… meditate, his peculiarly high voice called out the name of the poor, dead girl.

"Aurora Hence!"

Somewhere towards the front, an older, stronger girl strode out. At first, Harley thought she had a strong front, probably because her kalin gland was mass-producing glucenic acid, but past that, Harley guessed there was a simple, scared girl. If he hadn't gotten a good look at her eyes, his opinion of the District Five girl would've remained the same, but then, he saw something… strange in her eyes. Something powerful.

Maybe District Five would snag its second Victor with her.

After the silence that settled after the escort asked for volunteers, he moved to boys' bowl. He repeated his monk-like ritual. Harley distantly recalled a movie including a lion being similar to Hearth raising the slip to the sun.

He let it pass; he was too focused on the slip in his hands. In the galaxy's hands, actually.

"Harley Fitz!"

He knew it.

Somewhere inside, he'd known he'd get reaped. Something inside of him had felt it.

Harley passed by Ryker, sending him an _I-will-skin-you-alive-if-you-say-a-word _glare. For once, the bigger boy actually listened to him.

Harley passed the podium with his head cocked upwards. His eyes met the weird planet-man with a dark glare.

_You did this._

To his surprise, the man did not flinch.

After nobody took his spot, no surprise there, the man murmured just under his breath, barely audible to Harley.

"The universe has spoken."

* * *

_A/N: Mhmm. That was long. These two were too easy to write, they were so natural._

_There were two allusions (well one was one a movie). _

_Big kudos to whoever catches both!_

_Give another round of applause to PeenissandClato for their magnificent work on this chapter._

_We do have a District Six Boy! Yay! _

_Now, if you've halted your reviewing... or never started… not a good move. Tribute deaths are being plotted, and… a good portion of my decision is if you're reading, and the only way I can find out is if you leave a little comment. On that note, let's move to the questions _

_You know the drill._

_Who do you like more and why?_

_How was the portrayal of these two tributes?_

_Do you have critique?_

_Thank you, kind soul, for reading and reviewing. If you have yet to complete the second task, simply move your mouse (or finger if you're on a device) to the box awaiting you below._

_Til next time! (Expect Wednesday-ish)_

_-Bobo_


	8. District Six: The Restless and the Outer

_A/N: I'm sorry, guys. I'm inexcusably late, and as a writer and reader on this site, it's frustrating to not be able to write when I planned to. I could go on for a while, but that's not what we're here for. District Six! Yay! (quietly tries to lead you away from my tardiness…)_

_On from excuses, welcome our story-saver and a SYOT writer of their own, C1nd3r5 and Firebird128, respectively. Go check out Firebird's story and thank C1nd3r5 for letting this chapter be posted with their last-minute submission (my fault)!_

_In the District Four Reapings, Harleen is scared of Mizuko because she identifies him as Mags' son. Mags… I've said too much._

_To those who guessed and those who didn't, the allusions of last chapter were to The Lion King and the Alex Rider series. Both related to Hearth, since he did the whole Lion King to the sun act, and his description, his face that was a globe, was similar to an antagonist (I can't remember who) in the series_

_Leave a review! Can you figure out the allusion here?_

_Here we are with Cable Summers, who is eighteen years of age and Naya Elbasser, who is fifteen years of age. C1nd3r5 produced Cable, while Naya was made by Firebird128. Naya is 15 while Cable is 18._

_Disclaimer: The allusions of the previous chapter do not belong to me. Neither do the Hunger Games._

* * *

**Naya Elbasser**

**District Six Academy**

**May 16****th****, 11:14 A.M. Five days, eleven hours, forty-six minutes until the Reaping.**

School, as Naya had decided ages ago, was useless. Not only her various disorders and seething hatred of the prissy girls that surrounded her contribute to this, but simply, she didn't care about how Sir Alter Aleigh came from England in 2409 to America, beginning the war. Even if she did have English heritage, this stuff was junk. Nobody cared.

_Boring? Yes. Useless? Yes. Slightly difficult since I couldn't remember this if my life depended on it? Yes._

Naya's ADHD had practically screwed her chance of success at school, but she didn't belong her, anyways. She belonged outside, rolling in the rare, luscious field of grass around the industrial District Six. She belonged in a dirt pit, rolling around in a wrestling match. She did not belong in a history class.

"And so, Sir John Mith, a painter, convinced Sir Aleigh to again go to America settle. After the vicious English bombings, Aleigh was practically forced to," Mr. Monarch called out, sending his wooden meter stick flying across Aleigh's second path to America.

Seriously, what did the poor map do to him?

Naya rolled her eyes, unconsciously analyzing her surroundings. One upside of ADHD is her insane owl-like vision. Well, the awareness of it. She picked up every detail in the classroom, from the chip in the glass of the third window and the slight thrumming of a finger against a desk.

She was guessing it Jollan Walker, who sat exactly four seats to her left. A small smile opened itself as she thought of Jollan, her best friend for years.

There was nothing romantic between them. Neither of them had even thought about it. They bickered, laughed, and spent time together just like a couple, but they never had feelings past companionship for each other.

And yet, they balanced each other out so well. Their similar personalities allowed them to vent what nobody else could hear. From their challenges with ADHD to putting food on the table, the two never withheld anything from each other. They were each other's missing half.

Even though they were on separate sides of the classroom, Naya could scrutinize every detail about him from her desk. The way his eyes jumped from place to place like she knew hers did, how his left shoe was slightly untied, and even the color of his mostly-hidden belt were immediately picked up by Naya naturally.

"Ms. Elbasser? Do you have an answer?" Mr. Monarch inquired. Oh, great. There he goes again. The old man had probably decided the moment she walked in that she was going to be his favorite target for questions she didn't hear.

For a moment, Naya sat, studying the map carefully, but to no avail. "Sorry, sir. I have no answer," she muttered while averting Mr. Monarch's gaze. With a quiet huff, he called on some peppy girl, who cheerfully called out the answer.

She tried really hard not to roll her eyes. She tried really hard not to laugh. She failed.

One of her groupies sent Naya a nasty sneer, another barking out a threat, but what could they do? Thwack her with a pom-pom? It wasn't likely they were going to lay more than a scratch on her, even all together.

As Naya was about to taunt the witches, the bell rang. Naya considered following them anyway, but she decided against it. Her family was waiting, anyway.

"C'mon, Nai, let's go," Jollan said as he passed her desk, tapping impatiently with his pencil. An effect of ADHD, undoubtedly.

"Coming," she responded, stacking the last of her books into her bag. "Ready."

With a slight nod, they disembarked for their homes together. This was a routine thing, another annoying almost-couple activity that made everyone except the two of them wonder.

They walked in silence, allowing both of their excited minds to roam free. They noticed nearly the exact same things, the curve of the last industry building, the red rose laying at the doorstep of an apparently romantic family, and the missing tile on the road.

Their comfortable silence remained for the rest of the walk home. It was short, about a three minute walk of peace, so neither was bothered by the stillness.

As they reached the crossroads where Naya veered left as Jollan went right, quiet goodbyes left their lips reflexively.

Within a minute, Naya reached her humble abode, and creaked the wooden door open. Inside, the scent of candles and meat wafted to her. A metallic clank as well as the whir of mechanical equipment quickly reached her ears.

The first of her family to reach her was her brother. They held each other's gazes for a while before greeting each other.

"You're home," his voice stated plainly. Naya responded with a nod before commenting.

"Aren't you supposed to be working? It's only twelve."

"The boss let us out early. By Capitol law or something to let everyone out earlier the week before… you know. The Reapings," her brother remarked.

Again, all Naya could do was nod before awkwardly shifting around him.

The two were never close, even as children. Their personalities were alike, too alike to a point where their beliefs and desires would conflict with the other's.

Her brother, however, was darker. Tougher. As gritty as Naya was, her brother had been through hell and back the first month at his new job. He'd worked in places she was sure was illegal to work in, and yet, he didn't complain.

So the only true way to deal with each other was through the quick, generally awkward confrontations they rarely had, since Roy had to work so often.

Naya had just reached her warm bed, ready to fall fast asleep to ignore the growling in her stomach when the smell of meat got to her again.

At first, Naya had guessed she was dreaming of the food her family served, but couldn't afford to eat. Her father served as the district's butcher, yet they rarely ate anything but bad cuts of meat.

She was picking up… Pork chops. Definitely. Some steak sauce and honey was in the glaze, and… Wow. Saliva was beginning to form in her mouth, inducing her into a food coma… Chicken and waffles… What's a waffle…

"Naya!" a voice from across the room called in a hearty voice.

She jumped and sent out two vicious kicks. The first was blocked by the intruder's hand, but the second made a satisfying _thump _against a softer surface.

Her shoulders slumped in a relaxed form as she identified her father.

Her father's gray eyes met with hers before he said a quick apology when he realized she was up.

"Your brother told me you were home, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he mumbled quietly. It was warming to see a big, brawny guy check up on his daughter, or her in this situation.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm fine," she said as she groggily got up. The smell of cooked and raw, bloody meat reeked on the man, and she found herself sniffing hungrily. Her father, oblivious to her sniffing, tossed a metallic cube at her.

"From Mom. Said something about testing it out," he sighed, placing his hands at his sides as he glared distastefully at the cube. It was no secret that he disliked both her mother's tinkering and her mother trying to interest Naya in them.

"Alright, Dad. I'll be fine," she said, indirectly kicking him out. He nodded understandingly before stepping out of the room, leaving only the scent of meat behind.

Curiously observing the cube, her ADHD hit her up. The cube had several stitchings up close, but from afar, it seemed seamless. She gently nudged the imperfections before being awarded with it opening up. The machine whirred gently; this must be what she had heard coming home.

For a while it seemed interesting, but quickly, it refused to actually _do _anything. It remained droning, but no effect. Naya sat, trying her hardest to pull out the inner nerd in her, but eventually gave up, deciding it wasn't worth her time.

"Try again. Look for flaws," a gentle voice murmured. Though it was a tender call, it still shocked her.

"God, I have to like put a lock around here," Naya muttered, expecting her mother to get irritated with her tone, but to her surprise, her mother just grinned. She must've been overly excited with her new toy. "The deviation here? It opens the next level. Inside, the four colors bend the light and form- this."

The cube, which had originally warped four colors, yellow, beige, white, and orange, and with a twist of a knob, was then surrounded in a golden aura of power.

Naya reached out, feeling a slight shock while touching the cube before gently reaching for her hair. She found that it, too, had been static-like, forming an electric cloud in her hair. She brushed it off.

"How does it work?" Naya inquired, once again rubbing the surface that she'd guessed was steel on her bare hands.

"It's the wiring inside. The first four colors are non-essential, just for show. But our minds immediately connect the first four colors with gold, so it makes it seem like the cube has magically fused the colors together," she said, proudly pushing the cube back together.

Her mother began explaining in detail, and Naya quickly zoned out. Lightly, she picked up key words in order to answer her mother's occasional question, but she didn't truly care much anymore. Her itch to move kicked in, and she blabbered some junk to get out of the science lecture. She felt slightly guilty upon seeing her mother disappointed, but she understood. The longer she stayed here, the higher odds she was going to punch someone, or pee her pants. Basically, crap was going to happen.

Naya grabbed a handful of butter knives before she jo gged to the nearest door and swung it open, happy to breath the fresh, spring air. Not exactly fresh per say, but as fresh as she was going to get in one of the biggest industry districts.

She made her way to her spot in an empty field, with various, scattered chunks of wood to hit. She slung a knife behind her and logged it towards the trunk. It landed on the trunk, but the dullness of the knife caused it to bounce off.

For a good half hour, she launched knives at unexpecting trunks of wood. A handful would stick, but the majority slid off.

When her desire to move wore off, replaced with a more important want of hers- food. She could _smell_ the food from here. She packed up her knives, glad for the simple activity to take her mind off of crazy-movement mood.

She didn't know how important her hobby would become.

* * *

**Naya Elbasser**

**District Six Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:00 A.M. The Reaping.**

It had been a rather uneventful morning. Even though this year was Roy's last reaping, the family was unobtrusive and no more than respectful to one another that morning. The mayor had amassed District Six's only current victor, Argeliba Morse and District Three's escort for two years, Corienth Aris.

Both the escort and the victor stood over the mayor, a small, but powerful man, by at least half of a foot. Argeliba's presence was enough to scare the wits out of any sane person. Her eyes were icy blue, like the color of a glacier that crashed a boat from ages ago. The name of the book slipped past Naya. They blue orbs held not only intelligence, but calculation. Icy, cut-throat cunning. The woman had won her Games with that calculation, that cunning. Ever since, she's been using it to bring a kid home.

She had yet to succeed.

The escort, unlike the majority of his peers, was similar in physique and personality to Argeliba. He had strong arms, and an above-average physique. He wasn't a roaring meathead, but he had enough muscle to question what he did every day to get it there. But the similarities between the two didn't stop there, Corienth appeared to have the same intelligence behind his eyes, very different from a simpleton from the Capitol.

Just for a moment, Corienth's wandering gaze paused. On her. Their eyes met, and like so many before, Naya refused to look away. Corienth couldn't have been more than four years older than her, and with no make-up or obvious surgeries, he appeared like a regular teenager, save his jet black hair, which may or may've not been his natural color. Without deterring her gaze, she noticed its length, around his eyebrows and its natural sweep to the left.

Eventually, both of their eyes averted to the call of Mayor Cullen. The man was an albino, but he was still as political as any other mayor.

"District Six! We are here today to celebrate the forgiveness of the Capitol, and thank them with our children. Two of our finest kids will be sent to the Capitol to fight for their lives in remembrance of our treachery. Please welcome Corienth Aris, a representative of the shining Capitol," he paused momentarily, receiving a good amount of applause from primarily the feminine community. Idiots.

The mayor nodded towards Corienth, who stepped up to the microphone.

"It's in my opinion that Mayor Cullen covered the purpose and reasoning behind these Games. Now my job is to pick pieces of paper, excuse me, _children_, to represent this fine district," Corienth said dully, a bit of childish fun glimmering in his deep, brown eyes.

He stepped up to the girls' bowl, and took what seemed to be the easiest pick for him, the top paper. He might not look like a lazy Capitolite, but he sure did act like one.

"Naya Elbasser!"

Naya stood still, her brain slowly processing what had just happened. She had been reaped. Odds were, she was going to die.

And yet, she felt blank. Past the obvious shock, she had no true emotions. Naya stepped out, her head held high as she approached the stage. Her face, though blank, had immediately caught the attention of both Argeliba and Corienth.

As she ascended the stage and faced her people, she felt it inside. She knew it as she looked from face to face on her fearful family.

She knew she was glowing gold.

And she would still be glowing gold when she came home from these Games.

* * *

**Cable Summers**

**District Six Merchants' Row**

**May 21****st****, 5:16 P.M. Sixteen hours, forty-four minutes until the Reaping.**

Cable had actually come to the point where he enjoyed the Reaping. One, because he knew that he'd never be reaped with his measly seven slips, and two, because everybody, including the prettiest girls, were out at this time to buy special food for after the Reaping.

He glanced from his uncle's fruit stand at the best female specimens around. There was Cinder Five, a brunette with curves in just the right places, Caria Vee, a red-head with a perfectly molded face, and juicy red lips, and… who was that? She was _fine._

Cable glimpsed the girl up and down, thoroughly impressed with her style and body. He could feel a grin spreading his face when he reached her feet.

"Uncle Junger? I'm going to take my break," he said absentmindedly.

"Sure Cable," his uncle said before he went back to dealing with his growing line of customers.

Cable reached the beautiful creature quickly, tapping her shoulder anxiously. The girl turned, and she looked much better from the front than the back. And considering the power her back had on Cable, that said something.

She shamelessly checked him out, a smile reaching her face as well as she finished.

"How 'bout we check out some Reaping stands?" Cable asked huskily. The girl, who introduced herself as Indiana Something or another, followed unhesitatingly. They roamed the streets, scouring stands for free samples and fleeing as the merchant began to talk about money. The two spent the majority of the afternoon laughing at stories of family or the specific shade of red the merchants turned when they stole something.

"Let's go to my place," Indiana purred.

"Fine by me," Cable responded with a raised eyebrow.

Hours later, Cable sleepily grabbed his clothes from across the girl's room. He glanced at the girl, who'd previously been snuggled in his chest. Now, Cable had quickly replaced his warmth with that of a pillow with a warm towel around it. Trick of the trade.

He'd even given the girl a false name. Throughout the day, Cable had slipped her quick lies knowing that any true information might drive her right back to him, which isn't exactly useful when he was looking for more of a temporary deal.

Searching for an exit that'd be harder to trace, Cable hopped out of the nearest window on Indiana's two story, landing softly on a pillow he'd placed and _accidentally _left on their visit to the park next to her apartment.

Cable jogged away from the silver building in a hurry; his uncle would be on him for ditching work for a petty desire.

Cable moved in silence, thinking about the girl and her reactions that would probably erupt when she woke. She'd probably be going to the fake address he'd nonchalantly given her. It was the details the counted.

As he walked on the same path he'd walked every day to school for years, memories of Cable's past slowly made their way to him.

Contrary to his new ego, he'd been a social outcast, a nobody back in the day. At the age of twelve, a mere six years from then, he'd used to huddle at home, too afraid of the outside and its dangers.

Two things saved him from constantly remaining so. Two indescribably lucky events back-to-back had driven him out of his awkwardness. One- his uncle opened a fruit stand, which his parents, two caring, yet slightly annoyed factory workers, immediately suggested he work at.

The second- puberty had been especially kind to the only Summers boy. He grew, tall, with chiseled features and strength to match. Devilishly handsome, he'd slowly begin to evolve into who he was that day. A strong, striking man, who'd spent _quality time _with over half of his age group's counterpart.

He ran his hand through his hair passively as he noted of his current position. From here, he'd reach his uncle and the lecture to come in a handful of minutes.

"CABLE!" a wild voice bellowed.

Cable sighed, expecting this to happen.

After all the joy of the day, Cable mutely strode to his uncle.

* * *

**Cable Summers**

**Summers Household**

**May 22****nd****, 8:39 A.M. One hour, eleven minutes from the Reaping.**

"You should be _thankful_ to your uncle. He provided you with a job when nobody else would," his mother scolded as she tied her hair.

"I was busy," Cable said plainly, tucking his flannel white shirt into his black dress pants.

"Busy or not, it's your responsibility to take care of the job at hand! Your uncle said you were gone on what should have been a five minute break for _two hours._ What do you think your uncle was thinking? Do you understand how busy he'd been?" his mother yelled. Her arms were spread, and her face was glaring at him with this face that read, _What kind of kid did I raise?_

Through her screeching, Cable remained collected. "Mom, I just dozed off. No biggie," he said as he stood up, brushing the dust off of his pants.

His mother remained in her livid positions for a couple of seconds- maybe too many fumes got into her brain the previous day, before huffing irritably and stomping out.

_Alright then. What was today? Oh, right. The Reaping._ Naively, Cable had never cared much of the Games. Besides his slight pleasure of the citizens including the female population flocking the Square the week before the Reaping, there wasn't much to be associated with it, emotionally for Cable. Once or twice, some name he recognized would get pulled, but the entire district was practically in love with him, he'd never care if he was missing one or two lapdogs.

"Cabe? We're heading out," his father's serene voice called. Though he obviously disapproved of his tardiness of the day before, he certainly he wasn't going to kill anyone over it. Now it's all coming together, his mom really did sniff too many chemicals the preceding day!

"Alright, pops. On my way," Cable said as he threw on his dress shoes and ambled out of the open doorway, where his parents stood, waiting. His mother still seemed pissed, and Cable's carefree smile seemed to add some fire, but all in all, she was in control.

With only amusement from his mother's reddish ears and the invisible smoke that was probably coming out, Cable walked merrily to the Town Square.

* * *

**Cable Summers**

**District Six Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:02 A.M.**

"-sent to the Capitol to fight for their lives in remembrance of our treachery. Please welcome Corienth Aris, a representative of the shining Capitol."

Cable finally acknowledged the presence of the Reaping when the teenager walked onstage. At first, he'd thought it was some suicidal District Six kid, but he realized instantly that he didn't know him. So, he must've been from out of town. It took him a while to pick up that he was this Conkus guy. Whatever the name was.

"It's in my opinion that Mayor Cullen covered the purpose and reasoning behind these Games. Now my job is to pick pieces of paper, excuse me, children, to represent this fine district," the teenage guy said casually.

Cable watched indifferently from his position in the crowd of eighteen year olds as the guy took a slip from the bowl with little effort.

"Naya Elbasser!" Eventually, the Elbasser girl walked out with surprising poise. She wasn't by any means beautiful, but she was attractive in a weird heroine kind of way. Cable wouldn't mind spending some quality time with her.

The escort seemed surprised and even entertained at Elbasser's courage, but advanced towards the boys' bowl nonetheless.

Cable was delving on the thought of getting to know the Elbasser girl- not her personality, but her body, when the escort read the name off the paper.

"Cable Summers!"

Cable was still checking out the girl's hips when somebody nudged him. He glanced at the boy, vaguely recognizing Howie Menvell from grade school, when Howie pointed to the stage.

"He called you," his voice said weakly.

Cable blinked. Again. And again.

Uncomprehendingly, Cable stared the Menvell boy down until he looked about ready to run away. Just as Cable was reaching the fading point, a Peacekeeper latched onto Cable's arm, and dragged him to the stage.

For the first time in six years, Cable felt the rush. The rush he'd get someone would ask him to hang out before. The rush he'd get when his mother scolded him as a child. The rush of a teacher calling on him for an answer he didn't know in grade school. He recognized the rush; Cable could even name it.

Fear.

* * *

_A/N: Bad Author, Bad! You promised that you'd update Wednesday!_

_Sorry about that, it was a 'big, big week!'_

_Anyways, we'll run down the question drill:_

_Who'd you like better and why?_

_How was the portrayal?_

_Do you have critique?_

_And actually, one more question that'll probably be making its way into chapters with certain characters left to shine._

_How'd you like the escort and mentor?_

_Quick round of applause to PeenissandClato. Until next time, my readers!_

_-Bobo_


	9. Onyx Cartier: The Bringer of Blood

_A/N: Hey, guys! Slow review chapter for District Six, but I got my fill of advice, so here I am!_

_To those of you who critique me, I appreciate it. I intake your input every time and try not to let it slip into my newer writing._

_IMPORTANT_

_Due to various issues, each tribute will get their own chapter from this point on (they'll be average length)._

_This is my fault, I'm sorry._

_Reapings are officially halfway through! These aren't the most fun to write or read, but they're necessary. Next time (I'm pretty sure there will be a next time), I'll probably mix up the Reaping style or a least the Reaping size to make this part of the Games a bit more easy to pass._

_Here's a quick shout-out for all of you to check out other SYOTs, primarily that of Elim9, Flyere, Call Me Fin, and other fellow submitters. Go check out their stories while you wait for the next update! I'm sure these updates don't seem too fast, but I swear, once we get past these Reapings, they'll speed up. _

_Since these can be difficult to write, don't be surprised if there are details added… all over the place. PM me if I take it too far. Just a heads-up, there are some darker thoughts through here, but it's nothing too major._

_Without further ado, here are District Seven's Girl- Onyx Cartier, who is thirteen years of age._

* * *

**Onyx Cartier**

**Fairmount Estate**

**May 20****th****, 6:56 A.M. Two day, three hours, four minutes until the Reaping.**

The worst part, as Onyx had discovered, was the fact that they made her act as if they were actually her blood. The word, 'dad', never seemed to fit with a man who worked her like a pack mule. There wasn't an hour in the day where Lennon, her 'dad', was ordering her to clean dishes.

"Onyx! The foyer needs to be redecorated; I'm having important guests tonight! And where's that wretched girl, Sabriel? I need responsible maids, not sleepers!"

Onyx scurried towards the continual orders. At first, she'd been reluctant, disrespectful when pushed too far. But quickly, Onyx had learned her place. Much like the district around her, Onyx buried her wrath inside of her, locked with a non-existent key.

She very clearly remembered the first time she'd been snarky.

The Fairmounts, the ones who were supposed to support and care for her, had branded the incident in her memory. And her skin.

"Mother? How could I s-support you?" Onyx murmured with her eyes locked at her worn, broken shoes. She tried not to notice her mother's diamond-encrusted heels.

Sabella Fairmount glared analytically at her adoptive daughter. Sabella's eyes scanned the latter's for any sign of the fire that had burned so bright only a handful of years ago. For a time, this one had been feisty. She'd been the one to extinguish the fire in her, and even brought it deep into the skin on her arms. Even as a respectable political woman, she'd always known a thing or two about pain. Her heritage had been part of creating the ultimate bringer of annual pain, after all.

The Hunger Games simply ran through Fairmount blood.

"The foyer is plain, imbecile. Re-organize the setup and get that useless girl, Sabriel down here. I need her to get wood," Sabella barked. "The mayor and his committee of commerce are coming over in three hours. Do not disappoint me, child."

Onyx nodded politely, but she had lost Sabella at _get wood._ The one acceptable part of working without pay and little food was the wood. While the rest of the district was given the job expectantly, Onyx treasured the outlet. The only time Onyx felt as if she had a say in her life was in a metal axe and a fallen form lay under her.

Onyx used to question her own sanity because of her hobby, but she had quickly shooed them away. Who wouldn't go insane after working for these people?

Her bun, the only acceptable form of hair style in the house, bobbed as quick feet took the stairs two, three at a time. The scenario in which her feet surrounded quickly changed as she descended into the basement, the home of the maids.

There, she found the only two people who she had ever considered to be her true family. Sabriel Pola and Lenci Blossom.

Without knowing her deceased parents well enough, the two girls, the former being younger at the age of ten while the latter was older at the age of fifteen, had become her family. Lenci, the maternal figure for the two unprivileged girls, sat combing Sabriel's hair, who'd been crying uncontrollably, from a nightmare, undoubtedly.

Onyx remembered when she had had nightmares. She also remembered when she actually slept entire nights of peace.

She hadn't experienced either in its true form for quite a while.

Her axe-crazy mindset was numbed at the sight of her blood-sister in tears. Sabriel had grown up from the same adoption company Onyx was raised in, but her arrival at the Fairmount Estate had been less… legal, so to speak.

Yet every time Onyx attempted to speak to either, all she could pull off was sympathetic. Her personality, though bendable when pushed to the extreme, was cold. Rude. The traits that Sabella had thought she had gotten rid of were buried in the back of her heart, just waiting for an outlet besides yelling long tapestries of obscenities at innocent pieces of wood.

"Sabella requests your presences," Onyx said blankly. Both girls turned, Sabriel still bawling to Onyx's entrance. Through the years of tiptoeing into the kitchen to grab just one more crumb to eat had made Onyx tread discretely.

"Now? What does she want?" Lenci responded. Her words remained calm and soothing to quench the sobbing girl's tears.

"Both of you for re-arrangement of the foyer," Onyx said. She tried not to feel guilty about pulling them for a job she had, but her sessions in the woods were the only way for her not to slice something, or someone, into miniscule pieces.

"Alright," Lenci hummed, "just give her some time." When she stood, purposefully moving out of Sabriel's line of vision, she made a quick movement with her hands, silently gesturing with her hurt, brown eyes. The signal she'd made was a familiar one. A sawing motion with her index finger at her other wrist. Her eyes whizzed between Sabriel and Onyx's still eyes a couple of times before Onyx understood. Sabriel had started cutting again.

Lenci darted once Onyx had apprehended the signal. Onyx uncomfortably sat, patting Sabriel's back as her eyes fought with her curiosity to keep away from Sabriel's wrists.

They'd been patched up, as they always were after an incident, but even under the layer of Capitol medicine, Onyx could see the vibrant blood lying underneath.

She could see how pale and lifeless Sabriel looked. For a frightening moment, Sabriel reminded her of the easy way. But after the moment of questioning, Onyx moved past it. She had gone beyond that. Or so she told herself.

"You-you don't under-understand. He-he doesn't do-do this to you-you," Sabriel sobbed into her bloodied hands. Her entire body was racked in the loud, thrashing sobs. A constant shiver ran up the younger girl's back.

"I don't," Onyx said clearly. There wasn't much left to say. Onyx had never been a shining, beautiful girl that Sabriel and Lenci were. That's part of the reason Onyx had been legally adopted. It was harder to explain raping your daughter than a paid maid.

"-but I know that you had parents. Parents or _somebody_ who cared for you before you came here. Do you think they'd be proud? Proud that the last of the Polas is cutting herself like a little bitch?"

Sabriel shuddered, her face contorting from pain to the anger that Onyx had been prodding for. Onyx had learned from experience that one medicine to cure anything was emotion. Depression could be countered with tenderness and the sweet care that would never come in the hellhole they lived in. But anger that could be fished out from every piece of her could do just as well. If Onyx had to be the target, so be it. As long as Onyx kept Sabriel from doing what she'd done.

The Pola girl pounced.

* * *

After Onyx finally recovered from the scratch marks as bites across her limbs and face, she climbed the stairs, gripping her axe heavily. At a young age, Onyx had perfected her knife skills. Her only target had been herself, but her axe held no remorse in it.

Her iron axe held only control.

She swung the blade at her side as the double-sided door whooshed open at her command. Onyx was greeted by the towering pines and muggy air that suffocated her insides, yet her heart continued to speed up. The axe mentally lightened, her foots flew higher.

Within a minute, Onyx reached the wood-site she'd created years ago. The welcoming oaks were carved with the few happy pieces of her past. The sweet honeysuckle bushes reminded her of the fading image of her biological parents that she questioned to be real or a figment of her imagination.

Everything was surreal in the trees.

Eventually, time found its way to her, and her axe naturally rose, pointing menacingly to the nearest target, a growing birch.

Adrenaline overrode control automatically, and before she could stop, the birch and two neighboring trees had collapsed in a heap of destruction.

Her axe was buried by the blade deep in the trunk of a tree behind her, but the most disturbing part had yet to come.

Another blade was in her hands. A smaller, more delicate knife that undeniably held more power. She identified it easily.

This was the knife of her father's. Commander Cartier of the rebels, as she had learned. She swore that she had burned the thing years ago. After all, it had spent the past few years deep in her wrists.

Oh, but it had yet to end. At the end of her knife was a blot of red, inky liquid.

And a river of scarlet poured from Onyx's wrist.

* * *

**Onyx Cartier**

**Fairmount Estate**

**May 22****nd****, 9:35 A.M. Twenty-five minutes from the Reaping.**

Her hands smoothed the green fluff at the end of her dress as Lenci tended to her hair. The one time any of them could put down their hair was the day where their numerous tesserae that the Fairmounts didn't need could very probably kill them. For the past quarter of an hour, the two remained in silence while Sabriel fetched water for Bernadine, the brat spawn of the Fairmounts. It was Lenci who broke the silence with a low tone.

"Give me the knife," Lenci said. Her voice trembled, only audible to Onyx's ears.

Onyx hesitated to respond. She knew Lenci's motives meant well. Out of the three housemaids, she was probably the sanest.

Yet her hand refused to pick up the knife from a pile of laundry she'd left behind. It'd become a part of her. More importantly, it was the last part connecting her with her father or anybody beside the Fairmounts and her fellow maids.

"I threw it into town afterwards," Onyx lied smoothly. Surprisingly, the older girl didn't respond.

The two finished, adorning the overly expensive jewelry Sabella had left for them. The Reaping was the sign to the community and the Peacekeepers that they weren't being broken and smashed at their so called 'home.'

Sabella found it fitting to shower them in riches that transformed to rags the moment they returned home.

As pearls and diamonds hung from nearly every portion of open skin, Lenci led Onyx out unceremoniously.

They stood erect as the Fairmounts- Sabella, Lennon, Bernadine, and Van, the equally bratty twin of Bernadine, filed out the door in pristine clothing. The three maids followed with bowed heads.

The Fairmount family dispersed wordlessly as the Town Square came into view. Sabriel meekly followed her abusers into the Square, not being eligible for the Reaping.

Bernadine and Van obnoxiously strutted to the thirteen year-old section, and Onyx trailed with the posture and demeanor she'd perfected while in Fairmount presence.

Lenci walked alone into the fifteen-year old section.

Before the twins could harass the Cartier maid too badly, Mayor Garin stepped up to the podium, where his eccentric blue hair radiated like a drunken sun.

With her luck, Onyx got the insane mayor. Even District Twelve had a calm leader with relaxed, unkept rules to follow. Mayor Garin practically screamed for Capitol rule.

"Welcome, District Seven! May our children blossom into Victors like three before them have! Those District Seven leaders are Adam Wilde, Iona Limb, and Wava Severus!"

The three victors, all around their twenties, stood, the first two staring emotionlessly into the crowd of their people. Wava Severus laughed loosely; her pageant-like waving caused each District Seven citizen to look away in either pity or fear.

The sweet flower shop girl had finally cracked when her last ally of an alliance of seven blew up in a Capitol trap. She hadn't even killed anybody, yet here she was, laughing hysterically.

"That's the spirit!" Garin laughed heartily, "Let's keep it going with our escort, Priiiiiiiiiiinceton Haggard!" An elderly man with frighteningly neon skin walked towards the microphone with the assistance of a Peacekeeper and a walking stick embedded with diamonds that reminded Onyx of Sabella's bright shoes.

The old man couldn't speak clearly, but when his voice slowed, Onyx could decipher his mouth slowly. _Capitol _and _forgiveness_ were in there somewhere but Onyx couldn't identify much more.

After about a minute of blubbering, Princeton was led to the girls' bowl. Rather amusingly, Princeton fished for the slip _with his walking stick. _Onyx laughed for the first time in months.

Her laughing stopped when the name rang out for all of Town Square to hear.

All of them actually heard it- there was no denying. The Peacekeeper at Princeton's side had called out the name clearly, with a cold expression and a colder tone.

Even the two brats in front of her quieted at the name of the poor, dead girl. Onyx knew the girl very well.

"Onyx Cartier."

* * *

_A/N: Something new, right? We have some scheduling issues going on, so for now, each tribute will probably get their own chapter. _

_Anyhow, give a round of applause to PeenissandClato! A huge one, they saved this chapter!_

_Regular Questions:_

_How was the portrayal?_

_How do you like Onyx?_

_Critique?_

_How were the escort/mentors?_

_Until next time!_


	10. Janos Sheenan: Fun, Games, and the Fall

_A/N: Big news. I know, last chapter was up for… like 30 minutes?_

_This chapter, you're going to be reading the work of PeenissandClato, who has become just as much of an author of this story as I have. Applause, please!_

_Anyway, this will continue for the remainder of the Reapings- each tribute gets a chapter, and PeenissandClato will stop by often to write tributes in order to get these out faster._

_Tell us what you think of Janos Sheenan, who was submitted by The Koala of Doom and is fourteen._

* * *

**Janos Sheenan**

**District Seven Academy**

**May 19****th****, 11:36 A.M. Two days, twenty-two hours, twenty-four minutes from the Reaping.**

"You see, when we chop birches, the wood tends to be more difficult. Work at a diagonal angle in order to do less work and still get the stuff we need to come out," Mrs. Montemayor said, gesturing at a piece of sample wood.

A stifled laugh came from the back of the room. Mrs. Montemayor had a clear idea of which of the snobs it was.

"That's what she said," Janos chuckled, bursting into fits of laughter and pointlessly flailing his arms. The majority of the class groaned; they had no interest with the fool. The exceptions were four girls, all of various sizes. She knew them by name; she'd given each detention numerous times.

But the true nuisance was always the Sheenan boy. He just didn't seem to understand that nobody except his small circle of corrupt schoolgirls thought of him as funny, or even vaguely amusing.

She was about to comment as a boy from the seat behind Janos swatted him with a stick that'd flown loose in the demonstration. Mrs. Montemayor turned a blind eye and continued to saw the wood while noting various wood-cutting techniques.

"I hope you're about done, Mrs. Montemayor. I'm boooooored," he howled with his friends laughing alongside him.

The woman stood erect with keen eyes, responding in the exact tone Janos had used. "Well, Mr. Sheenan. I hope you're about ready for detention. Because that's where you'll be for the next two days."

Seriously, were all of the kids here born without a sense of humor? Was he the only who could take a joke?

Janos had long discovered the kids' disapproval of him, but he doubted that he'd _never _get them to joke around with him.

Tommy Hilfiger, the boy who'd decided to jab Janos, had gotten a round of laughs by poking him. Poking him! He could do that! Maybe he'd bring a stick and jab Tommy the next day…

The bell escorted an embarrassed Janos out of school, all the way, he muttered in worst insults he could think of at Mrs. Montemayor and the absolutely boring people around him.

_Idiots, _Janos thought angrily. _One of these days, I'll show them Janos Sheenan. _While he was lost in his fantasy where all the dull kids around him bowed to his comedy, he almost didn't notice Thekla, a best friend of his, along the way home. _Round Two._

"Hey Thek! What do you get when you mix a snowman and a vampire?" he burst, giving her one of his most convincing smiles.

Thekla rolled her eyes- she'd heard this before. "A frostbite, Janos, I know. I'll see you later," the girl muttered as she trudged through the muggy, pre-summer air.

Janos sighed himself. He'd strived to be the best at everything, yet he couldn't even get a laugh out of his friend. He had disappointed himself once again. Janos considered going for Rounds Three and Four with Jagusia and Adelyn, but decided against it. Odds were, he would be denied again.

It was pointless, anyway. His friends had left for Jagusia's for violin practice, but he'd decided not to come. Whenever Jagusia touched the wood instrument, Janos reminded himself of an annoying jester. It annoyed him how Jagusia was better than him at something; the girl was supposed to be a groupie, not a talented sidekick.

Instead, Janos's feet led him on the long trek back to his home, where his brother stood at the door with two tomahawks and a pleading grin on his face.

"Janos? Can we go get some wood? Please?" his younger brother, Reuven, pled with a puppy dog expression. He might've been twelve, but he still acted like a five-year old to get what he wanted. Janos, on the other hand, worked for himself. Kind of.

His forehead beaded with sweat from the walk, but the look in his eyes was undeniable. His brother had his charm, of course.

"Sure," he said lightly, picking up a tomahawk which felt like it weighed a ton and following his younger brother into the sparse forest.

Reuven babbled the entire way about his day, leaving Janos to plan how to get more wood than his brother.

He had always been this way. Competitive. He loved the thrill of victory and the rush that he got whenever he saw the face of the loser. Over the years, he'd become obsessed with victory and the adrenaline it brought.

Even his little brother would be crushed when Janos obliterated more trees.

Once they reached the lumberyard their parents worked at, Janos began to slice tree after tree. Reuven cut as many as he could, but as they both tired, it was clear Janos had taken more trees down. It'd been easy ever since he started picturing the wooden giants as some certain fellows at school. Who went by the name of Tommy Hilfiger.

"Woah…" Reuven murmured off-handedly. Janos stood proudly on a tree stump, glaring at any suspicious-looking trees that might get up and assault him in vengeance.

Reuven scratched his head as he glanced around. Between the two of them, eleven trees were cut it fifteen minutes, seven of which belonged to Janos.

"Nice job, Jay," Reuven said quietly. Janos's heart tinged with guilt, only for a moment, as he looked at his little brother. Reuven would get over it. Janos already had.

"You did alright," Janos replied as he grabbed pieces of wood in his hands, weighing them nonchalantly.

"Janos… you won't get reaped, will you?" his brother murmured with his big brown eyes staring into Janos's darker ones. "I don't know what I would do without my brother."

"Buddy, I'd never leave you. Even if I did get reaped, those tributes wouldn't know what hit them- I mean look at these trees!" he exclaimed gleefully. His brother remained worried behind him as Janos marched triumphantly. "Besides," he said without truly glancing back, "if I left, who would there be to crush you at everything?" he chuckled gaily.

Janos led the way home; his sulking brother followed quietly.

Janos was still too proud of his victory to stop and see his brother in tears.

* * *

**Janos Sheenan**

**District Seven Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:03 A.M. Three minutes into the Reaping.**

Janos snickered as Princeton dug up the girls' slip, and for once, his posse didn't laugh along with him. They were all too tense to hear anything but the name of the soon-to-be-dead girl.

All their worries were for not, as it occurred.

A girl with pale skin and brown hair from the thirteen-year old section parted from the relieved teens; she was shaking like an aspen leaf. Her left hand instinctively moved to cover her right wrist.

It took a while for him to connect her face and wrist to her name, but Janos had seen the girl around town. She was the Fairmount girl, the one he'd heard rumors of. Rumor said they didn't feed her unless she worked obediently and politely. Judging by her frame, Janos could believe that.

The sympathetic cries of injustice rang out, but most were half-hearted, as they always were. It would be okay. This girl wasn't their child.

People were too pleased with their daughter, their wives, and their siblings coming home safely for another year.

Janos remained stoic while the girl scanned the crowd, silently daring somebody towards the front to do something.

Janos rolled his eyes; she was being the typical heroine. Boooooring.

Princeton was escorted… Ha. Princeton. The escort being escorted.

Princeton was led to the boys' bowl, where his slip-picking cane pulled the unlucky boy out. Janos had nothing to fear; he had exactly three slips; Reuven only had one. But at the last moment, where Princeton's cane raised to reveal the name of the dead boy, his mind slipped the thought in the smallest of voices.

_What if?_

And then, the name was called.

Janos was frozen in place as the Peacekeeper cried the two words that shattered his life into irreparable pieces.

"Janos Sheenan."


	11. Syrene Lovett: Bad Blood

_A/N: Here's Syrene Lovett, PeenissandClato will be providing our District Eight Male, Angevin Roi._

_I have considered writing first person for a while, and odds are, that'll begin in the arena. It'll be an odd shift- from third person past (occasionally, I accidentally shift to present. Oops) to first person present, but in my opinion, it'd make the arena experience more believable and add another layer of depth to the tributes._

_We're three quarters of the way through! Fun Fact- I've written May 22__nd__ on so many papers. You know, reaping date totally represents my End of Course. Absolutely._

_There's not much else to say besides Syrene Lovett was submitted by the ever-amazing LunarLionHeart and Angevin Roi was submitted by the wondrous xDisgraceAvengerx. Syrene is fifteen while Angevin is 16._

_Enjoy the Textile kids!_

* * *

**Syrene Lovett**

**Lovett Household**

**May 21st, 3:17 P.M. Nineteen hours, forty-three minutes until the Reaping.**

As Syrene released the multi-colored bag, a gift from her mother, onto the ground, she met a home of silence. When they'd lived in the industrial part of the district, she'd treasured any moment of peace and silence she could find. Now, she couldn't help but feel deserted.

For what felt like centuries, this muteness had descended around her with the withdrawal of her parents. They weren't dead, though they may've well been.

The last time Syrene had seen either of her parents in true form, not a midnight glance the usual note with money, had been years before. When they'd received the cursed promotion.

Her parents were specially gifted in their craft- designing. They worked together in unison, to a point where Syrene had begun to question if there was a romantic relationship at all.

But four years ago, as Syrene had just celebrated reaching the mere age of eleven, they'd received a notice. From the Capitol.

Their hours were set in stone- every day for twenty hours. Permanently. Orders sent directly from President Quinn herself. The underlying threat after the assigned times had been quite evident. She remembered it word for word.

My dear Lovett designers- I understand the economic shift may be difficult, but we all must adapt to different circumstances. I'd hate sweet, cunning Syrene to face such circumstances in the Games.

Ever since, she'd been isolated. With their pay, they'd send messengers, letters, gifts of all shapes and sizes, but Syrene desired none of it. She just wanted her mother, the bright and creative woman whose voice was undoubtedly from the heavens. She just wanted her father, the supporting man who'd never doubted his daughter's beliefs, yet all she had were neon book bags and gourmet meals.

She crept in the silence, not creating a sound, as if not to disturb the tranquility. Syrene had perfected the art. With all the secluded time, she'd accustomed to having no apparent sound, whether she'd preferred to or not.

Her feet shifted her to the window, where she gazed openly to Town Square.

The sight nearly made her heart burst.

Children, in rags and in silk, walked hand-in-hand with their parents, who laughed, whether they adorned make-up or dirt on their faces. It clearly didn't matter to any of them. No. Nothing mattered besides family.

Her hands bunched up the curtain, causing an unwelcome flinch to echo in the shattered silence. Syrene flinched angrily.

Syrene's silence was once again disturbed with rapid knocks on the door. Damn, who would bother her, of all people?

"Look, I don't want your ma-," she began, planning on finishing with 'materials.'

But her irritated growl was met not with a beggar or an inferior salesman, but by one of the few people remaining in her district that could make her vaguely pleased.

Before her stood Cordelia Pollux- a flamboyant girl who, interestingly enough, didn't have much payroll behind her to support her personality. Their relationship was one of yin and yang, Syrene stood proudly, with a stoic expression and unreadable eyes, while Cordelia would undoubtedly be at anybody's home with a can of something she shouldn't have laughing about herself within minutes.

And yet, no matter how ostentatious she was, Syrene envied her. The same way Cordelia envied her.

They both desired what the other had. It was human nature.

At least she has a family.

At least she has money to live off of.

Their jealousies never reached the point of bitterness, however. They could want all they possibly could, but they balanced each other out in an undefinable way.

"You don't want my ma? Why not? She's so fabulous!" Cordelia giggled as she welcomed herself into Syrene's home. Home. She hadn't referred to the silent area as home in a while.

"Who said you could enter?" Syrene said with a slight grin- Cordelia was here every other day, though her presence disturbed the silence Syrene'd accustomed to as of late.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Madame. I'll go out to the porch and kneel to your greatness," Cordelia said with equal verve. At this, Syrene tilted her head, tapping her chin in consideration.

"I believe that would be suitable," Syrene responded.

Cordelia burst into laughter as Syrene cracked a smile at their playful banter. Cordelia was like a sister- she was loud, annoying, and often rude, but Syrene, for once, didn't care.

She'd been raised to follow common courtesy- treat others the way you're treated was a phrase drilled in her early on, and she'd followed her beliefs steadily until she met Cordelia. If she could remember correctly, Cordelia had first encountered her intoxicated, and proceeded to… ah… release the liquids onto her.

Cordelia often told her of how her face had been the same color as the once-red dress.

She could never understand how they'd become friends.

The memory instigated an airy laugh that'd been waiting for release out of Syrene, as Cordelia's face rapidly switched from its usual tan to a color that dimly represented the description Cordelia so often told her.

"You're… you're a lunatic," Syrene let out between laughs. Cordelia, in return, clutched her stomach, murmuring something along the lines of, 'Stop it! It hurts!'

Eventually, both returned to their usual state, wiping away tears of laughter from their reddened faces. Syrene's old friend, Silence, made a re-entrance, but in a different form. Comfortable silence. Syrene actually appreciated this friend.

"You're just going to hole up in here for the rest of the day?" Cordelia said, cocking her head in thought.

"Well, there's not much to do in an industry district," Syrene responded in a small voice. Her mind immediately noted the industry districts- she had had a test the previous day over them. Districts… 3, 5, 6, 8, 12, and previously 13. Yes, that's right.

She turned back to her friend to meet an expectant look, and she could feel the question she didn't hear hanging in the air. Syrene responded in the upmost class and sophistication she'd been taught to use.

"Wait, what?"

Cordelia laughs lightly before repeating her words in an exaggeratingly slow speed.

"Are-you-kidding-me? Have you seen the Square lately? There are so many places to go! And best of all," Cordelia leaned in closer, whispering as if she spoke a secret of severe importance.

"Boys," her voice murmured as it encroached Syrene's eyes.

She rolled her eyes, ready to once again deny Cordelia on the topic of any social interaction as her friend's eyes met hers, pleadingly.

"The Reaping's tomorrow, and everyone wants to be out there! You know. Just in case…" Cordelia trailed off.

Syrene considered her words for a moment, not thinking of her odds, but Cordelia's. Her name should be in there at the minimum for their age, a meager four slips had she accepted Syrene's money instead of tesserae. Now… Syrene knew the number of tesserae taken out would be to support her family of four, not including Cordelia, herself.

It couldn't be less than twenty-five.

Cordelia's eyes communicated the unspoken chances, leaving Syrene to think. Eventually, her social resolve crumbled, and she sighed profoundly.

Cordelia most literally squeaked, yanking Syrene along the stone path, a minute walk at most. Considering the rate Cordelia was yanking her, they had probably reached the square in half the time.

In the midst of the lights and the unbelievably large crowd of her people around her, Syrene felt something she hadn't for a while.

She felt as if she belonged.

* * *

**Syrene Lovett**

**Pollux Household**

**May 22nd, 8:46 A.M. One hour, fourteen minutes from the Reaping.**

Syrene woke up to a mutt licking her.

Not the mutt that had killed rebels in the rebellion, but a more literal version. A dog that she'd recognized instantly.

The shaggy-haired, brown-eyed monster was yet another mouth the Pollux's had decided to feed with their measly income.

What was the thing doing in her home?

She sat up and instantly regretted. The pounding in her head was so intense that she'd nearly passed out.

Trying out another tactic, she rolled off the bed, something she'd look back to in shame for the rest of her days. She landed with a painful thud.

"Ugh… Argh… Er… Ah…" Syrene clutched in agony as both her head and chest painfully pulsed. It was at once that she recognized the pain in her chest- every girl past the age of twelve did. But her head?

The hound was sniffing delicately at her fallen figure, and she painfully used the unexpecting dog to rise from her position on the floor.

With a disapproving bark, it sauntered out the oak door before Syrene could get up. She moved from one piece of furniture to another, and as she continued, small details clicked. The fire truck-red clock in the corner that her father had bought for her, the door handle, and the crack in the glass alerted her of her existence in the Pollux Household.

She tilted her head in thought before grimacing in the pain and returning her entire frame to a straight position.

How did she get to Cordelia's house? Maybe she was studying when Cordelia had asked for assistance, or maybe the dog needed medical attention that Syrene had learned to give after her mother sent pamphlets teaching various techniques or-

Syrene felt a wave of both pain and disappoint roll over her as she finally recalled the past night. She'd actually… interacted with her district. Not only that, she drank.

So she was on her monthly, and was nursing a hangover.

She ran a hand through her unruly curls. She'd seen a girl from… Five? Six? Definitely an industry district that'd been drunk get reaped.

Syrene had watched the girl in disgust, yet she'd done the same thing as her. She'd disrespected her family name by not appreciating the Capitol ordinances.

She tried to be more disappointed, but after the initial discontent, Syrene actually felt… accomplished.

Carefully, yet clumsily, she rose using the bedpost. A wave of nausea ran over her, but she pushed forwards to the toilet where she released various fluids.

How grotesque.

After she had rid herself of every illness, she moved outwards, recognizing the room fully now. It was the guest room that Syrene had funded. It had been termite-infested, but after a quick repair, it was basically Syrene's.

She descended to the stairs to meet Tyke and Sufei. Both of Cordelia's siblings wore what must've been their reaping outfit- Sufei adorned a simply red skirt and a basic blouse while Tyke was wearing a clean white button-up and pants.

The ten and eleven year old looked at Syrene distantly. They almost hadn't recognized the aristocratic girl when she was wearing torn clothes.

"Siri?" Tyke said, squinting his already minute eyes as he tried to identify her. Syrene responded with a nod.

"Where's Cordelia?" Syrene questioned as she laced onto a couch to steady herself.

Sufei had opened her mouth to respond as a stronger voice took its place.

"Miss Lovett- oh! Dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Pollux shrieked as she rushed to Syrene's side. The woman beside her had become her motherly figure for the past four years, albeit Syrene providing the money.

"Oh dear, Cordelia did this, didn't she?" She clucked her tongue sadly. "I'm sorry, I'll try and-,"

"It's fine, Mrs. Pollux. It was my fault, I allowed her to take me Town Square," Syrene cut off, though kindly and respectfully. The woman had frequently blamed her own daughter for the duo's misadventures, and she had good reason. As she'd said before, Cordelia could be a lunatic.

Mrs. Pollux nodded, no longer upset about the incident since Syrene had apparently allowed it. She politely led Syrene to the nearest bath- Syrene had actually funded this one, too.

"I'll go fetch you a dress from your home," Mrs. Pollux began. Syrene frowned. Allora, as she'd preferred to be called, always treated Syrene too well. She knew it was out of thanks, but Syrene would've wasted the money on useless things, anyway.

"It's fine, Mrs. Pollux. Anything will do," Syrene responded.

"It's no big deal, Syrene, I can certainly-," Allora began, only to be finished by Syrene.

"I'm in your debt, here, Mrs. Pollux. I did wake up in your home in an inferior position. I'm very grateful and humbled," Syrene said in an almost robotic tone. She'd perfected that line years ago with the help of her father.

The woman's eyes twinkled in appreciation as she handed Syrene a towel.

"I'll go grab one of Cordelia's," she began, "Thank you, Syrene." she said before closing the door.

Syrene undressed from the tattered outfit and flipped the switch that instantly launched water out of the rickety faucet. She pushed the curtain to conceal herself just as the door creaked open, and she assumed Allora had brought a dress.

In the steaming water, Syrene closed her eyes, and once again, she returned to her eleven-year old self, silently thanking whichever god for the peace and silence.

* * *

**Syrene Lovett**

**Pollux Residence**

**May 22nd, 9:50 A.M.**

Apparently, closing her eyes in the shower with a hangover and a monthly somehow caused Syrene to doze off.

She woke to the gently knocking of Allora, who'd sent Cordelia, who'd been asleep before Syrene snoozed, with Tyke and Sufei to the Reaping.

The sweet-scented shampoo was the first thing Syrene consciously identified in the shower. Then, the knocking. She came to her senses and slammed the water off, hurriedly throwing on the outfit.

She recognized it. A cream dress that Cordelia had worn when she had thrown up all over Syrene.

Perhaps it wouldn't have been too much to ask for Mrs. Pollux to grab one of hers.

Syrene, without another option, adornedthe dress and swung the door open, where Allora and Hari, her calm, kind husband stood.

"I'm so sorry, I was just so tired, and-," she blabbered uncontrollably.

Now it was Allora's turn to be humble.

"Oh, it's fine, sweetie. Let's go to make sure the kids made it okay," she said as Hari sent a quiet hello with a quick wave of his hand.

Though not as near as Syrene's residence, the Pollux household wasn't terribly far from the Town Square. The trio arrived on time, though Syrene hadn't put on any make-up.

Great, I have a hangover and no make-up. May as well show up n*** and yell, 'I'm the Lovett's girl! Don't buy their stuff anymore! We have no class!'

Allora and Hari both wishes polite calls of luck as Syrene departed for her section. She searched the section of fifteen-year olds thoroughly, but to no avail. Cordelia was nowhere to be seen.

"It's alright," she murmured to herself. "I'll see her right after."

The crowd of fifteen-year olds slowly moved from the hungover, make-up-less girl who talked to herself. She was on a roll!

She was sure one was about to comment on her possible insanity when Mayor Childress approached the podium.

Personally, Syrene had always favored Mayor Childress. Even though she was originally from District One, she was a political mastermind, not a ditzy blond.

Her words were always calculated and intelligent, and her actions were to par. She'd been the one who passed the Children's Act- the act that supported children without family in the district, that'd supported Syrene, and indirectly the Pollux residence.

She recited her usual speech with articulation and precision. Once the Capitol-endorsed portion was over, she read the list of Victors.

For a group of knitters and designers, they had done well. Over twenty-three years, District Eight had accumulated a total of two victors. The first, Polio Austin, appeared drunk and overweight, much different from the cocky, attractive boy that had been reaped for the Eighth Hunger Games.

The second, Quinn Desential, was in Syrene's year. At that day and age, she was the youngest victor. She'd won the Twenty-First Games with that blowdart of hers at the age of thirteen.

The following year, Pasiphae Jacoby, another thirteen year old, from District One, also took the crown, but Pasiphae was two days older.

Quinn did not appear to suffer the same addiction or influence as her fellow Victor did. In fact, the once loose-leaf girl sat straighter, stronger. Her aura, even at the age of fifteen, radiated power.

Quinn nodded at her name, and Polio groaned.

Mayor Childress's words became distilled as she introduced the Capitolite representative onto stage.

Gyra Vine was exactly what she sounded like. Most likely, she'd changed her name, but some said that she'd been named that naturally, and was surgically changed to fit said name.

The forty year old stood, gears surgically implanted into several parts of her- her arms, legs, and face were full of them.

It didn't end there. Vines of varying shades of green sprouted out of her head, completely encompassing her hair. They wrapped around her body, though the width waned as it got further down her arm, to the point where the gears were still identifiable.

"Hello, District Ni-, er, Eight! The change has been wonderful!" she called happily. The crowd half-heartedly applauded, partially out of pity at the woman, partially out of fear of the Peacekeepers pointing guns.

"It has once again time to select tributes to represent District Eight! Let's follow tradition and start with the girl!" the gear-vine lady screeched.

She approached the massive glass dome and smiled at the crowd while her hand hovered over slips, occasionally clutching one and releasing it, undoubtedly to cause suspense.

Syrene understood what she was trying to do- her job, but this was just cruel. Grabbing at the possible of deaths of children? This witch was taking it too far.

Eventually, her hands enclosed on a slip and drew it dramatically. It flew out of the bowl and into her reading position. Syrene hadn't gotten enough time to say a prayer and probably freak out the kids around her.

"Cordelia Pollux!"

Syrene became a statue. Cordelia appeared from the group of fifteen-year olds opposite Syrene, at a position she'd never have seen.

She was visibly shaken. Fiercely shaken, but what could Syrene do? At least Cordelia had a chance with her slightly stronger physique.

The thoughts formulated quickly, and she realized the difference between a chance and a win. It was substantial.

If anyone was going to die, it couldn't be Cordelia, the bubbly girl with a family who needed her.

It could be Syrene, the girl without family. She knew her parents cared for her, but they didn't need her mentally like Cordelia's family did.

Syrene's parents could still send money.

So when Gyra asked non-expectantly for a volunteer for the shaken girl, a strong, confident voice erupted from the fifteen-year old section.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

Out stepped a girl with bags freely showing under her eyes, confidence radiating from her presence. Her dress, though simple, was sophisticated and resilient.

On stage, Gyra was taken aback. She was pleased, of course, but still, surprised. The girl who'd volunteered was no physical threat, but based on the show she had put on, Gyra was ready to see her in the Games, representing her.

On stage, Quinn's posture immediately perfected itself in respect. Her eyes softened at the tired girl with depression clearly shown in several spots on her face. The poor girl reminded her of herself.

On stage, Polio shifted in his chair. This one had been different. Special. This one reminded him of Quinn. He looked her through and through, his bloodshot eyes were something they hadn't been for two years. Excited. She announced her name with this… ferocity. The kind of ferocity that won the Games. _Syrene Lovett… he'd remember that._

On stage, Mayor Childress smirked. She knew this girl. Very well, actually. She had passed an act to keep the girl here. Her parents had been removed on her request. For Panem's benefit.

A world away, Gamemaker Ferring gasped wildly. The Pollux girl had been on the list. For reasons unknown, this girl had indirectly commit suicide. His eyes focused on the young threat- she was an issue, a flaw to his perfect record.

A world away, President Quinn raised an eyebrow. Gamemaker Ferring had failed. Not a good sign, screwing up her Reapings. But he'd be spared. Only because this one was just as much of an issue as Pollux girl, though neither girls knew of the power they held.

A world away, a man and a woman broke into tears. They'd been assured safety had they stopped everything. Their business was more than just pretty dresses.

They went by Daphne Lovett and Ladon Lovett, though their names were Daphne and Ladon Junger. The son and daughter of General Junger, leader of the rebellion, even at a young age.

"Oh, Syrene," President Quinn, originally Natalie Junger said to the screen. "It's been a while."

"We'll see whose blood you've acquired, dear niece."

* * *

_A/N: Hm. Interesting, no?_

_Regular Questions, today:_

_How do you like Syrene?_

_How was the portrayal- was it confusing (towards the end, especially)?_

_Do you have critique?_

_How were the non-tribute characters, here? (Cordelia, Mrs. and Mr. Pollux, President Quinn, the mentors, and the stylist?)_

_I'm really proud of this chapter. I think I can say I'm steadily improving- I read District One, and I have to apologize to Emmeline C. Thornbrooke and seventhquill907 for that car crash._

_Another round of applause for PeenissandClato!_

_Until District Nine!_


	12. Angevin Roi: Fifty Shades of Red

_A/N: It's been a while, huh? Sorry about that- busy week._

_Anyway, here's Angevin Roi, the male tribute of District Eight. Eighteen years of age._

* * *

**Angevin Roi**

**Roi Household**

**May 20th, 10.37 AM. One day, eleven hours, thirteen minutes until the Reaping.**

Angevin had decided that people, of all kinds, were annoying. Whether it was the kid next door or the teacher at the boarding school, they were nuisances. Useless.

He removed himself from this generalization, of course. His view was not from the eyes in which he physically saw from, but from the skies, indifferently watching the useless beings wander across the land beneath him.

There were others that he discounted. His mother, for one, wasn't useless. Though she over-worked herself for his sake and that of his sister, Angevin couldn't do anything but love her. The woman could crumble in a split second without any reason.

His sister, Celine, had also proven her worth to Angevin through the years. She'd shown academic improvement, the that was the only sign the two were related, with their mismatched hair color and opposite body structures.

Lastly, there was Aleah. Realistic, calculating Aleah. He'd began to believe the only reason he liked spending time with her was because she reminded him of himself, but as days turned into years, that resolution crumbled, leaving one explanation to tell the tale between the two of them.

He just liked spending time with her. She was a smart girl, something that wasn't too easy to find in a district full of knitters and tailors who spent more time behind a sewing machine than behind a desk.

At the window of his room in the apartment, his mind wandered off the list of purposeful people to the much longer list of idiots.

Hunter Kingston, for example, was the district's lead idiot ever since he'd taken the crown from Riley Tin by setting fire to the boys' bathroom to get a day or two out of class. Not to mention Angevin had been in that room.

Unconsciously, he ran one hand over the other, covering the signs of the burns he'd hidden with any form he knew of.

There were more minor nuisances, namely Riley Tin, Gor Velance, Acrin Gastro. But one rose above the rest, Hunter included.

His buffoon of a father had officially promoted his father from 'Nitwit' to 'Buffoon' the last time he'd been seen kissing another woman, often a younger girl.

Pathetic how a husband at the age of 31 was still taking advantage of his looks.

The story got longer and longer with his father. His errors started ages ago, the first error resulting in Angevin, the second resulting in marrying Angevin's mother. All the man ever did was think about himself and the desires that went along with the name Xanther Roi.

His fists unclenched and his eyes returned to their regular stature as a small group of kids passed his window, tossing a small ball back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

The yell came out louder than he'd intended it to, yet the kids continued with their nuisances. He threw his hands in the air as he left the room and brought a small cane along.

"Fools!" he barked as his form grew closer and closer to the playful children. They paid no mind.

They saw him coming, but ignored his yelling for a while- noxious fumes from District Eight made people go mad pretty often. Insulted, Angevin turned a newer, brighter shade of red.

"Stop your incessant banging!" he growled, finally gaining the attention of the kids. He leaned heavily on the wooden stick beside him.

"What are you gonna do about him, gramps?" a young boy, probably not even eligible for the Reaping, laughed at Angevin and his cane. He had brought the cane for a reason, and that wasn't for walking on it. Even if they were ten years old, four against one weren't the best of odds. A weapon of any sorts could be useful.

Before the kids could react, their ball was impaled. The rubber sphere had been run right through Angevin's sharpened cane like an arrow through an apple. Shrieks of fear came from the group and distant neighbors. The group of boys fled, though an older, stronger one walked calmly towards Angevin.

He recognized the boy. Zevin Howles, who resembled the daunting boy he'd punished just then. The taller of the two approached calmly, as if he was ready to just pass Angevin to get to the butcher's behind him, but any of the buffoons could guess otherwise. Zevin approached calmly-

A sickening crack rolled across the industrial district with a quick howl of pain to follow. The Howles boy sat, clutching his red hand as Angevin strolled back into his home. Undoubtedly, he'd pay for his brave actions, but his mind could care less. Though the thudding and laughter had stopped, Angevin still heard the barks and curses from the Howles boy.

He preferred the latter by far.

* * *

**Angevin Roi**

**Vance Household**

**May 21****st****, 11:32 A.M. Twenty-two hours, twenty-eight minutes until the Reaping.**

"And yet you stabbed the kid? Come on, Gev, you just scared his brother half to death!" Aleah Vance lectured. She may've been intelligent, but her moral compass was definitely a difference between the two.

"Wasn't my fault the kids were loud. Nor was it my fault the fool came close," Angevin replied as he feigned interest towards the paint chippings on her front porch. Aleah continued to argue as the floral dress she'd been wearing swayed from side to side. It was a mesmerizing sight to say the least. His eyes wavered as her swaying stopped and her boots were pointed accusingly at him. Slowly, his pupils moved up to Aleah's eyes, who were clearly annoyed.

"Gev? Earth to Gev? Do you copy? Aleah, here. _You've_ got a problem," she said, her hands flashing in front of his blond hair.

"Hm?" He'd just reached her shoulders.

"Thank God you're not an astronaut," she said quietly. Her voice continued on, now focused on Panem's dumb plans to research space for District Three's request of higher equipment. He contrived artificial interest in her lulling voice, his eyes settling peacefully on the hems of her dress, and then the curves of her face. A mesmerizing sight, indeed.

A light grin spread across Angevin's face as Aleah's expression distorted while explaining the cons of visiting the moon. Her brow creased in hatred, her hands tightly wound.

That was the girl that reminded of himself.

Her rants on Panem and the moon were as dull as ever, yet her expression and her tone caught and held his attention. Her voice reminded Angevin of his mother's before the accident.

His airy expression fell, replaced with the cold mask he'd trained himself to put on as more thoughts of family popped up.

She wasn't dead, of course. As he'd said, she still provided for their family and was a legally healthy woman with regular health benefits. Occasionally, she needed help lifting or reaching things at work. All things that a normal woman with a husband or a son would do.

But his already unhinged mother had worsened after the accident.

Reine Roi was no longer the cheerful fifteen year old that'd been pregnant with Angevin. Nor was she the confident housewife and mother of twenty-nine years of age. Now, she was a cripple.

It appeared logical for a cloth-designing factory to be rather simple, safe work. But the horrors inside were worse than any bombs District Five made.

The Melter, the machine that was responsible for melting the plastic, was heat-equivalent to a massive volcano. One spill was all that it took. One loose nail. One large amount of dead workers, many more were injured. Reine Roi was among the broken.

They say his mother was a beautiful woman, his stunning white-blonde hair and Celine's nearly neon green eyes. They say she could've picked anyone with her looks alone, and with her intelligence to match? She could've asked for the mayor and passed off.

Yet, Xanther Roi, a reportedly abusive man, boy at the time, had been her choice.

Angevin had yet to connect the dots.

"Gev? You feeling okay? You need some pills or something?" Aleah called. Her expression was blank, but it was obvious by her breathing and redness that she'd just finished one of her especially lengthy speeches.

"Pills? I'm feeling fine," he responded, his right hand moving to the back of his head. "Just thinking about the rockets and asteroids, you know?" he quipped. Aleah's expression nearly burst into its usual geeky explosion, but her eyes and ears finally caught on.

Her eyes darkened, possibly breaking the record of _darkest void in place of pupils in Panem._

The girl was smart, but come on. This happened _every _week!

"Bastard," she muttered as she took the bench opposite Angevin, who studied her indifferently. Her gaze faltered at his piercing eyes, yet her voice was still defiant as she continued on.

"Don't you need to be with your sister? Reaping's tomorrow, and it's Celine's first. It's just brotherly to help her through it," she said absent-mindedly.

"Ce's strong," he said instantly. "There's no point in me guarding her anymore. She can take of herself."

"She's twelve, Gev. There's nothing wrong with helping out a twelve year old who could very well be sent into her death tomorrow."

Angevin grimaced. It was no secret to his district that Angevin and Celine basically shared different gene pools. Celine was the outgoing, intelligent girl that'd brought tears of the past into their mother's eyes on more than one occasion.

As much as he hated to admit it, his calculating, apathetic nature was inherited from his father.

And because of their differences, the two butted heads often. Celine disapproved of Angevin's behavior, and Angevin disapproved Celine's.

He grumbled, sinking further into the white porch as his mind silently decided on a _No._

"Fine. I'm going inside," Aleah said calmly.

"Cool." Angevin rose to follow, but only a locked door met his expecting gaze.

The blinds unfolded, revealing a cross-armed Aleah whose lips read slowly.

_You dirty bastard. Go visit your sister._

"Dammit, Aleah."

* * *

**Angevin Roi**

**Roi Household**

**May 22****st****, 9:02 P.M. Fifty-eight minutes until the Reaping.**

After all the trouble he'd gone through the previous day, the brat hadn't been home. And yes, she'd just reached the 'Brat' level. If she kept it up, she'd be at 'Imbecile' in no time! Perhaps she'd put a few extra slips with his name in just for the kicks!

A low moan followed by gurgles yanked Angevin from his thoughts, as he'd trained himself to do ever since the accident.

"Arlearein," his mother murmured, grimacing in pain afterwards. Angevin, for the first time since his brief meeting with Aleah the previous day, smiled.

"How's it going, Ma? How're you feeling?" he said gently, raising the glass of water to her position. She smiled appreciatively before grimacing once more.

His face darkened instantly. Exertion at work caused his mother this pain, this agony that cursed her on a daily basis, and yet, his father neglected being at home, even on the Reaping, claiming he'd wanted to see the Reaping setup.

He was probably in bed with some teenage girl while his wife drowned in pain. His snarl vanished at a blurry gurgle leaving his mother's parched lips.

"Geruood," she gurgled, raising her hands for a hug. Angevin instinctively swooped downwards, encompassing the tired woman in his pale arms. Her fragile body argued with his grip, but they both knew the odds. With tesserae and age working against him, the Reaping didn't appear friendly to Angevin.

The two remained in the embrace until his mother pulled away, an indescribable sorrow sown into her sunken cheeks.

"Cee?" she groaned. In response, a mane of golden locks and freckles flew into the room to the broken remains of their mother.

"I'm here, ma," Celine called to her mother, oblivious to her condition. Words of the day and its predecessor flew out of the youngest Roi at an immeasurable speed. Angevin bit back a snarky remark, containing it by moving out, leaving the two Roi women to themselves to chat.

His acute frame made its way to the kitchen, where he grabbed a knife, paring his overgrown fingernails for the Reaping. As the knife sliced through the white skin, his mind waged war with his conscience about his mother.

It was a simple battle he'd been fighting for years.

Ever since the accident, his father was out more and more. His actions became a new kind of reckless. His drinking, uncontrollable.

With the money that was to put food in the family's mouth, their father drank away.

Had he ever mentioned his father was useless?

To keep up with his father's declining income, their mother worked more. And more. And more.

At his age, there wasn't a thing he could do. This wasn't District Four or Eleven. There weren't real fish in their murky waters; grass, let alone edible plants was a rarity many toddlers had yet to see.

So all he could do was watch his mother rot. Because of his slimy excuse of a father.

At this, the door slammed inwards, the scent of vodka dense in the air. A man in his early thirties walked in, swaying in alcohol.

"Speak of the devil," he cursed under his breath.

"What was that?" his drunken father barked, scratching the brown curls in his hair that drew every poor girl into his general area.

"Nothing," Angevin returned, dropping the knife into the small drawer, for his safety and his father's.

The man huffed, effectively making their humble abode reek more, if that was even humanly possible at that point.

"Where's the lazy excuse of a woman?" he said as he stretched. He reeked of unmasked body odor, which unpleasantly mixed with the alcoholic scent, which was a smell enough to make any sane person commit suicide.

Yet, Angevin was unaware. His focus was on the words his father had just spilled out. The naturally pale skin on Angevin brightened, turning unbelievable reds and dark, stormy pinks. His father's bloodshot eyes taunted him evenly, a smirk on his face.

"Are you gonna say something, or are you gonna turn purple next? Actually, I've always thought orange would fit you well," he chuckled at his seething son.

Just as his unkempt yells were finally to be released, his mother's figure approached feebly with his sister in tow, as a support. Perhaps it wasn't fair to bring her all the way to "Brat'.

As gurgles were exchanged with drunken, aggravated yells, the two Roi children stood fuming at their own father, but they knew their place. They also knew their father's status. If their father wad to disappear… there wasn't going to be one Peacekeeper, one citizen who wouldn't turn them in. His father was apparently too _likable._

To Angevin's surprise, it was Celine who finally stopped the two. "We're going to be late," she started evenly. "This can just… wait."

Her small figure was a pebble to the boulder of their father, no matter how drunk, yet her words stood confidently and without fear. That was worth demoting her from 'Brat".

Xanther's odor, still unnoticed by him, multiplied as he turned their way. He squinted at his daughter, expecting her to burst into flames with his laser vision before huffing.

"Fine. We'll discuss her laziness later."

Angevin's eye twitched, and his hand reaching for his imaginary knife waiting to be swung. It was only going to be a matter of time…

His mother, sensing his urge, started the family off to the Town Square.

What Angevin hadn't seen was the bruises lacing her collarbone.

He hadn't seen the cuts filling her legs and hands.

He hadn't seen the tears streaming down her brittle face.

Most importantly, he hadn't seen the look in her eye. He hadn't seen the compressed anger, waiting to be released.

* * *

**Angevin Roi**

**District Eight Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 9:56 A.M.**

After separating from his shaking sister, Angevin strolled to the sixteen-year old section, scanning the vast amount of tired, deep-sunk eyes and bodies, looking for Aleah. Her small figure and common features were difficult to distinguish, but her voice was quite easy to identify. All it took was one quick, 'You dirty bastard!' to let Angevin know where she was.

He approached her as she glared the lights out of a passerby, who'd offended her in some way. The poor guy was limping, clutching his… Yeah. You know.

"What'd he do to you?" Angevin commented nonchalantly.

"He broke my personal space," she began. "so I broke his."

Angevin lightly took a couple of steps away, eliciting an airy laugh out of her. The natural grin that was one of the few differences between the two lighted Aleah's sunny face. Angevin blushed, turning a shade of red entirely different from the color he'd turned with his father.

"Um… Aleah? I've been-,"

"District Eight, it's an honor to welcome our escort, Gyra Vine." Their mayor said in a blank tone. Though her speech and announcement of the Victors, Polio and Quinn, was precise and sharp, her finishing statement was dull. It was reasonable to have something against Gyra. She killed two kids every year. Angevin let out a light curse as Aleah averted her attention from him.

"Hello District Ni- Er, Eight. The change has been wonderful!" the twisted woman exclaimed. Her grotesque figure was exactly its name- a gear-infested body. To make it even more _fabulous _she'd decided to install permanent, long vines into her sides, each carved with her full name. Gross.

Her excited, ravishing tone was met with dull applause that matched the dull feeling in the air. This was District Eight, not Two. What did she expect?

Her positive grin faltered, and she cleared her throat to break the silence. "It has once again come time to select tributes to represent District Eight! Let's follow tradition and start with a girl!"

The crazed lunatic tried to create suspense as she grinned at the crowd and her hand darted around the glass dome. As ashamed as it made him, he admitted solemnly that it worked. Was it a crime to be nervous for Aleah and Celine?

Eventually, the vine-gear lady yanked out a slip and exclaimed the name of the poor, dead girl with a disturbing amount of pride.

"Cordelia Pollux!"

She had apparently expected to have a dramatic echo without interruption, because when the smaller girl volunteered, she looked disappointed before returning to her usual pride.

The girl was odd to say the least. He recognized the girl, but only vaguely. She was a year behind him, though rather short. Her name… Her name was…

"Syrene Lovett." she said clearly into the microphone. For a moment, the entirety of the district was taken aback. For a minute girl with a minute frame, she sounded confident.

"Fantastic! Onto the boys!" Gyra screeched. Her high heels clicked angrily onto the stage as her viny posture switched to the other side of the stage. Unconsciously, Aleah took his hand in hers.

The two stood, praying as Gyra once again caused hype by being the idiot she was, waving her hand in the bowl for kicks.

Once again, she drew the slip just as Angevin was sure somebody would yell at her to do it already.

"We have a… Oh dear. I believe it's… An-Jevlin? Roi? Angevin Roi!"

Shock seized his heart; Aleah cried out in fear. For a handful of seconds, their eyes met, explaining what their mouths could no longer.

Distantly, a Peacekeeper grabbed his arm, separating him from Aleah. He naturally swung his left hand, connecting with something and making a _snap._

The last thing he remembered was the needle in his arm, and the pained expression on Aleah's face.

And then it all went black.

* * *

_A/N: By the way, this was a collaboration with PeenissandClato's support. Give them a round of applause!_

_Regular Questions:_

_How do you like Angevin?_

_How was the portrayal (confusing/well-written/good, but…/go to a writing class already)?_

_Critique?_

_How were characters besides Angevin? (Gyra, Xanther, Celine, Reine)_

_Thanks for reading! Send a review in if you have the time!_


	13. Biahniz Delucan: The Redcoats' March

_A/N: Here's District Nine, Biahniz Delucan and Colm Miller. Biahniz is seventeen while Colm is thirteen. Biahniz was submitted by BecauseofKillianJones, and Colm was submitted by the ever-appreciated and revered Elim9._

_Biahniz is sometimes referred to as "Lost Girl" or "Bi." Bi is pronounced like the animal 'bee.'_

* * *

**Biahniz Delucan**

**District Nine Wheat Fields**

**May 21****st****, 11:13 A.M. Twenty-two hours, forty-seven minutes until the Reaping.**

As it turned out, the Reaping wasn't _all _bad for Biahniz. Sure, there was a chance that she'd be sent to her undeniable doom, but there was an upside. Standing in the shoulder-high blades of wheat, Biahniz identified it. An easy job.

The Peacekeepers and even the privately paid guards, referred to as Guardians, were rather lazy come Reaping time, which made her job ten times easier. All she had to do was run past a couple and reach the safe and…

"Bi?" a far-away voice called. Her attention to it remained non-existent until she became aware that the voice was shaking her furiously.

"Huh?" she called out. Though dull at first, her eyes twinkled at the man in front of her. Before her was Pahn Jones, as they'd decided to call him. His strong frame and icy blue eyes hid the true teddy bear he was inside. The fool hadn't been able to kill a dog when it started barking during their last… job.

Yet she loved the man. More than she loved herself, at times. His sweetness balanced her. Her focused demeanor could relax when he was laughing his head off like a two-year old.

"Guardian on top left balcony," he murmured, pointing at the private farm before them. "Do me a favor and get his attention."

"Got it," she said, heaving up her slightly extended belly. Her legs stopped, only if momentarily. As she did every day, she allowed her mind to wonder.

_Am I really able to do this with the baby?_

_How long before the kid copies me?_

_What kind of mother am I?_

"Bi," Pahn spat quickly. She shook her head, fumbling clumsily to the center of the fields. Biahniz heard Pahn's practically silent sprints fly onwards, to the barn, where they both knew the money was. The money that would support their baby.

_Hopefully._

It was a chance they were willing to take. Possibly lose the baby and their lives to support their baby and their lives. It all made sense.

As Pahn moved forward, far enough where he was out of sight, Biahniz began to stand up at her full height, a towering six feet. Her hands flew to her extended belly, her mouth opening with groans and yelps.

"Help! I need help! I-I think I'm going into labor! Ahh!"

The Guardian, no matter how sick and twisted he was, would move. It was logical. Every person was born, so every person supported birth. Plain and simple.

The man, short and stocky, soared down the stairs, taking them by two. His hurried footsteps sent echoes, even from the wheat fields.

Biahniz's moans escalated in volume and urgency. The mini-man reached her, hollering for help that her 'co-workers' made sure was not to come.

"Ma'am! Oh, lord. I-I don't know what to do," he panted. His expression supported his claim. His eyes were puffed, not the usual puff from the dust and wheat grains that came from the golden stalks surrounding them, but puffs of pure fear. His cheeks brightened; his entire frame shuddered. Just what she needed.

Her voice, with the perfect quaver and fear within, commanded him with the doubt that the man himself faced. Sympathy came in handy on a daily basis.

"Just… just go to the hospital. Get help, hurry! Agh!"

The man scampered off in quite the bemusing jog, somewhere between a rat's scurry and a girl's joyous frolics.

With a light laugh, Biahniz rose, clutching her extended chest with only the slightest of grimaces. She tilted her head towards the barn, only to see Pahn approaching, bags of wheat, cash, and medicine in tow.

"Good job," he muttered, handing her the bag of medicine. Her hand remained on her chest.

Her eyes met his, only for a moment, with a slight nod of pain, pressure, acknowledgement of the future. They both knew. Oh, too well, they knew.

That this baby could've been the ruin of them.

* * *

**Biahniz Delucan**

**Delucan-Makker Household**

**May 21****st****, 10:26 P.M. Eleven hours, thirty-four minutes until the Reaping.**

After a long walk with a longer talk, Biahniz and Pahn had finally gotten home. Home, an apartment meant for two that housed five, seven including the babies within mothers at the minute apartment.

"Henry's asleep," a throaty voice called from the hallway. The man that approached wasn't Pahn, but with all the time he spent with the two of them, he may as well have been. Baelfire Makker, Pahn's wingman, co-worker, and blood brother was a father. Even after four years, Biahniz still found it hard to believe that the goofball, who'd met her with a beer in his hands, was a father, and a father of her age.

Dwelling in her thoughts, Biahniz unconsciously accounted for Emma, Baelfire's wife, rising with the help of her husband and Pahn. Like Biahniz, her stomach was bulging with life. Unlike Biahniz, Emma had already had her first child. Henry. Henry, named after a ruler of a faraway land that he'd never see.

Biahniz found it cruel. Biahniz found the world in its whole damn entirety cruel.

But she was no spitfire. She had a temper, but she could control herself. Or at least, she'd been told she could.

Within moments, the trio slowly moved towards the single bedroom which Biahniz and Emma shared. Against her better judgment, Biahniz remained in the warm, beige room.

Shortly thereafter, Pahn returned.

"Bi, you should go to bed," he murmured, running a greasy hand through his blonde locks. "It's your last Reaping. May as well make it a good one."

"It will be a good one. No tesserae, and only seven slips. I'll be fine," Biahniz muttered, buckling as she rose. Pahn rushed for her arms, and he slowly brought her to her feet.

"Hopefully," he whispered. The situation the four were in was a specific level of cruel. Pahn and Emma were both twenty-one. Safe from harm. Safe from the Games. Safe from the Capitol.

Biahniz and Baelfire were eighteen. Not only were they open for Capitol torture, but they were in their prime. Both had seven slips, and though many children of fourteen or fifteen had double their number, seven was still enough to worry. Nine was a small community- ever so small that worry hit every family, every home each year.

They reached the bedroom where Emma and Biahniz were to sleep. The snoring figure on the bed rumbled the bedroom softly; another sat in a corner. Baelfire, the crouching figure, also slumbered peacefully.

"Up you go," Pahn chuckled, sweeping Biahniz off her feet, grunting at her weight. Gently, Pahn's warmth was replaced by that of the bed beneath her. Besides her, Emma sighed sleepily. They remained like this, looking at each other void of emotions, namely fear.

Biahniz was almost shocked as their contest was broken, and Pahn leaned down on her. With little noise, his lips met her forehead, giving the slightest fatherly kiss. It'd been like this for a while. They loved each other as soul mates, but that was nowhere near the boundary. Ever since they'd found each other in the foster homes, they'd became the other's best friend, the other's brother, sister, father, mother. They became the other's everything.

And as she watched Pahn slowly step outside, she knew.

She knew that no matter what happened tomorrow, she would return home. Whether it be in hours or weeks, she would be home.

Whether she was covered in joy or showered in blood, she would be home.

For him.

* * *

**Biahniz Delucan**

**District Nine Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:03 A.M. Three minutes into the Reaping.**

Mayor Capricorn was as dull as ever. His speech was blurred through his thick beard; his face was reminiscent of a cow about to meet the slaughter.

Though his District and the Capitol was oblivious to it, he was so. About to meet the slaughter.

But District Nine was quaking in its wheat-growing boots. The farmers, the merchants, and the beggars were all united, if only for the next five minutes. If only in fear of their safety. If only in prayers for their safe return.

Except for the Delucans and the Makkers.

The party of five stood in the crowd, amongst those safe for the Reaping. It was a risky move, but they all looked mature. Hell, Biahniz was pregnant. That was enough to pass her as a twenty year old.

The tense group watched emotionlessly as Capricorn concluded his dull speech with a fit of coughs, effectively forcing the pool of possible tributes to take a couple of steps back in disgust.

"And now," he began, only to be interrupted by another fit, "I welcome Luna Arman, Capitol Representative of District Nine!"

The one understandable statement he'd spoken all day received a light round of applause as the woman in moccasins, traditional feathers, and a supple hunting uniform bounced elegantly, if possible, to the microphone.

"Welcome, my fellow citizens of the Great Creator's world. On order of the Great Creator, I am here to select two sacrifices to the shining realm of the Creator. We are the few that understand his true purpose, no? I find it necessary to distinguish ourselves to the Creator," Luna said, pausing for a much needed breath.

"Therefore, we will begin with the male species. But before that, it is my obligation to welcome the Creator's chosen ones- Arly Paci and Orson Marshall, who have returned from the Creator's sacred realm to spread his secrets!"

Biahniz rolled her eyes as the two Victors of District Nine rose to a substantial amount of applause. Orson Marshall, who'd won the eighteenth Games, waved with little interest, while Arly's attention remained glued to her feet. The Paci girl, a merchant's daughter, hadn't even killed a person in the Games.

She had, however, watched two of her allies bash each other's heads in. Her own District partner had tried to kill her, but that hadn't been the worst. Pulp Daniels and Reese Underly, tributes of District Eleven and Eight, respectively, killed each other in front of her. Arly had stood powerless as her new friends slit each other's throats.

After the applause ended, Luna- or Lunatic as commonly referred to by Biahniz, did a variety of somersaults with light… gasps in between, causing several wolf whistles to burst out in the heart of the tribute pool. Among them was Baelfire.

_Boys will be boys._

Luna reached the bowl oblivious to her large appreciation from the male portion of the crowd. Unlike her colleagues, Luna wasted no time to dramatically call the name of the dead boy.

The Delucans hadn't even had time to pray for Baelfire.

"Colm Miller!"

A relieved breath released itself from the Delucans, Makkers, and every family excluding the poor boy's. It had taken a while for the cameras and Biahniz to identify the dead boy, and the sight was disgusting. The boy, who looked no older than eight, giggled as he ascended the death podium. Cries of injustice that Biahniz had seen in several Districts- Three and Seven had particularly young sacrifices, burst from the crowd.

There was noticeable movement from random people- a teen that looked too old for the Reaping, a rag-tag woman and others, that moved away from the stage unlike the remainder of the crowd, who moved towards it in anger, but Biahniz hadn't notice.

They had been too busy celebrating Baelfire's safety.

The celebration had continued for a reasonable amount of time. Enough time for them to embrace their safety, which others thought to be happiness of a safe relative in the ropes.

But Luna didn't move at a reasonable rate.

Just as they released each other, just as the cries of injustice were silenced, just as Biahniz had finally breathed in relief, the girl's name was called.

"Biahniz Delucan!"

The silence afterwards was remarkable. To the public, there was no Biahniz Delucan. The 'Lost Girl' was known as so for a reason. She went by different aliases- Jenny Wilson at the baker's, Yvette Donald at the tomato plantation, Reini Par at the market.

But there were a select few who knew her. Among them was her husband, Baelfire, and Emma.

But there were more. A Peacekeeper who'd seen her file and picture pass up in previous years. A doctor who'd written her name down as the godmother of Henry Makker. A dealer who traded various grains- mostly barley, for food that Biahniz needed.

These people knew her. And they sure as hell knew what she looked like. Biahniz saw him before he saw her. The doctor. Even though that'd been years ago, Doctor Gurney was notorious for his memory and his Capitol loyalty. The last thing she needed was for her family to be penalized for her not entering the tribute selection area.

With a fleeting glance, Biahniz slowly circled the ropes, not directly sloping under, but nonchalantly walking. She could sense her family behind her, willing her to come back.

And as Biahniz Delucan joined her eighteen year old section, and then stepped towards the podium with her dress clasped tightly between her hands, she heard one last call of injustice ring out.

Not from the Millers. Not from Pahn. Not from Baelfire. Not from Emma. They all knew better.

From Henry.

Of all people, the five-year old screamed out, yelling words that Biahniz didn't know. Whatever they were, they couldn't have been pleasing.

In a heartbeat, the cameras droned out of life. The electricity practically shut off. For the second time that day, District Nine roared to life in anger.

And with it came a single gunshot. A single, heartbreaking gunshot that killed whatever anger the wheat farmers still had.

On stage, Biahniz buckled to her knees, but this time, Pahn wasn't there to bring her back up.

No, Pahn was on the ground, uninjured, pressing his blood-soaked hands against the chest of the fallen target.

With only her knees supporting her, Biahniz glanced at the lifeless figure on the ground.

It had been settled, then.

Henry would never meet the country in which his namesake ruled. But he had gotten quite close.

Just like the loyal soldiers that had served King Henry, his coat was soaked blood-red.

* * *

_A/N: How was it? Late, I know. Sorry!_

_At this point, Bloodbaths are locked in. It's not one of those adorable little four tribute bloodbaths. It's a bloodbath, in its true form. _

_Questions of the Chapter:_

_How do you like Biahniz?_

_How was the portrayal?_

_Do you have critique?_

_How were the other characters? (Pahn, Baelfire, Emma, Luna)_

_Colm is ready as of now, but I've decided to force you to wait temporarily so I can start District Ten. _

_*evil laughs*_

_Until next time!_


	14. Colm Miller: The Hidden District

_A/N: Hello, readers! _

_Welcome Colm Miller, a tribute of thirteen years submitted by the revered Elim9._

* * *

**Colm Miller**

**The Miller Household**

**May 16th, 09:34 AM. Six days, twenty-six minutes until the Reaping.**

The early morning was quiet. Peaceful. The sun, colored like a peach, sent tendrils of orange through the gray sky, tinting the few clouds with a light apricot hue.

Dew was gathered on the flowers and plants, on the grain District 9 is made to grow, and on the spider webs throughout, making the thin threads glimmer with undisturbed moisture.

No sound crossed the sleeping District. Not even a mouse scuttled across the floor, as if afraid of waking children like it were reaping day. Until Colm Miller decided to wake up.

A quick yawn morphed into useless chatter to the sky.

"It's a beautiful day!" He sang, throwing off his thin blue blanket off his body. His childish frame hopped off his thin bed happily. He soared down the hallway to his humble abode's kitchen. There, his mother stood, peeling potatoes for the meal to come.

"Mother, mother! It's nearly time for the Reaping! Aren't you excited?!" he squealed into the bread that was on the table.

"Colm, it's almost Reaping day. Show some respect…" Colm's mother drifted off, sniffling. "Show some respect to your sister," she muttered, no longer able to look her naïve son in the eyes.

"What do you mean, mother? Heather was taken by the Capitol, and the Gamemakers took her to District 13," Colm said, tearing a chunk of bread from the table.

Shock. Shock and pity. That's what Colm could identify on his mother's face as the words left his mouth before he had time to take them back. That's would Colm could always identify from his mother's eyes.

You see, his mother had never understood _reality. _Reality was that he knew Heather was still alive. His lovely sister had supposedly been killed on national television, but Colm knew better. He was a smart kid, you see?

Very smart. Not crazy, like the kids down the street had called him numerous times. Smart.

His mother's eyes averted from his bright blue ones as the bread vanished into thin air. Cheerfully, he rose to and joined his mother next to the stove.

"Sorry, mother," he said as he gulped the remaining bread, "there I go. I was just joking mother," he lied clearly. His common sense was a curse, truly. He had to lie to his parents because of his intellect!

His mother looked relieved, but only for a moment. Quickly, her pained expression returned.

"Colm, go do your mother a favor and go outside," she said, staring directly into the meager supply of food.

Delusional people couldn't even like him in the eyes, sometimes.

Colm obliged in pure pity, silently walked out the door with a small frown. His mother would never understand the truth… He guessed this was the only way _delusional_ people dealt with their issues.

His childish feet flew out the door, leaving his ignorant mother and father in the cottage.

Colm scampered out of his family's little house to one of the places he was accepted in- his own cave. The rest of the district was just like his family- they had no common sense. The poor saps…

The entrance to his mystical cave was hidden behind a tangled thicket of vines and branches, a mile or so from his home. Nobody else had found it as of yet, except Colm, who'd ventured out only because he was looking for place to think of his sister and their past.

When Colm ducked under the last thorny branch, he saw his paintings. Splattered across the walls were berry juice of varying hues of deep violets and blood reds. They splayed across the brown cave wall to reveal his lovely family. His mother, father, himself. And best of all, his sister.

She was hidden from then right then to try and scare them, an honorable attempt by the Capitol, but it was pointless. Colm knew that she was somewhere out there- perhaps District Thirteen or hidden amongst their ranks without their knowledge. And eventually, they would be reunited.

Like Colm dreamed about.

He plopped onto the ground surrounded with dying and wilting flowers he'd brought for Heather. She'd always liked them. Violets, especially.

Gradually, his body slid down and stared dreamily at his sister.

"Heather? When are you coming back?" he asked plainly. He wasn't insane; like he'd mentioned, he was the only that wasn't, but it was nice to slip into the delusional world of everyone else's once in a while. It helped him know what to say to them when they were being unrealistic. Seriously, the Hunger Games? A big hoax was all.

And as he did every time he visited, Colm began spewing theories on life, the Hunger Games, and most of all, Heather. He'd been going around telling people in the district of his theories and District Thirteen, and some got mad, but Heather always accepted his thoughts. Her figment, anyway.

Outside, there was only one other person who even tolerated his thoughts. Kellen Hasselholf, a twelve year old boy, simply tolerated him. No support or input was ever given on Kellen's part, but it felt nice to have someone besides Heather's figment of his imagination agree with him on something, for once.

Just as Colm reached his theory of Reapings being rigged to specifically scare certain families to get more entertainment, he dozed off with a small grin plastered onto his calm face.

In the corner of his cave, a camera zoomed in on Colm's sleeping figure.

* * *

**Colm Miller**

**Miller Household**

**May 16****th****, 12:00 Noon. Five days, twenty-two hours until the Reaping.**

Colm left the cave with an additional kick in his step.

That made… what, four per step?

His general happiness obviously rubbed the people the wrong way, since their stares followed Colm wherever he went, but he paid no mind to the gawking pedestrians. Instead, he continued to create theories.

He'd been thinking about the Capitol as of late. Theoretically, they should be becoming a more distributed government to avoid Panem revolting again, yet they were tricking these naïve citizens that their kids were dying. Didn't make much sense to Colm.

So, he'd quickly made another theory. The Capitol was full of idiots.

Upon his sudden epiphany, he blurted out his thought, leaving the local blacksmith, a bulky man, to dart into his shop, locking the door behind him as a Peacekeeper approached.

"Now, son," the man began, taking Colm's shoulder with his gloved hand, "words like that will get you in trouble." The man didn't seem to have an undertone of anger or even venom, but Colm quickly understood. This man was one of the delusional.

Colm rolled his eyes, _who wasn't?_

"Of course, sir, I'm sorry 'bout that," he said, scratching his head in feigning sorrow. The Peacekeeper remained blank as Colm passed him mutely.

Colm listened for engaging steps. He wasn't afraid of the man, since he knew that the usual punishment was to take the person and transport them to the hidden district, but he'd rather not have a delusional man get infuriated with him.

Delusional people can be _very _dangerous.

Colm reached his home, pulling the wooden door and walking in with a light sigh.

Inside, both of his parents sat around the table with utensils and their 'silverware' set. Dull glasses and rusty spoons were littered across the table to make up for the large amount of low-quality food. His father grunted assertively at his entrance, and his mother stood, aggravated.

"Colm! Where have you been? Why are you so dirty? Have you been hurt? How dare you leave us to worry!" his mother continued, irrationally, of course. Theoretically, nobody could've seen him- they could only be sent to the hidden district like Heather had. Either way, he still didn't enjoy watching the televised version of her feigned death. He had yet to forgive the District Eight girl… what was her name? Quill? Quella?

"Colm! Look at me when I speak to you!" she screamed, her face contorting to a red shade, her hands now raised.

"Fia, leave the boy alone. He was just out," his father mumbled. "Get a girl out there, son?" his father said into his newspaper without glancing at Colm.

"Actually, I was talking to Heather," he said plainly as he took his seat directly across from his father. His father put the paper down and glanced from Colm to his mother, who'd worn a smirk at his father's surprise.

"Colm? Listen to me. Heather? She's dead. Been dead. It's been two years since she di-,"

"No. I've told you before, dad. The Capitol took her and brought her to District Thirteen."

His words hung in the silence that was so tense, two of the three at the table were expecting it to snap. It was his father who cut the silent wire.

"Colm. You're imagining things again. She's-,"

"No, listen, I have been making these theories-,"

"Colm, I need you to hear me out-,"

"But your ideas are wrong! Heather's fine!"

"YOU'RE DELUSIONAL! DIDN'T YOU SEE THAT GIRL BASH HER HEAD IN? DON'T YOU REMEMBER? YOU CRIED JUST LIKE WE DID!"

Throughout the argument, volumes rose steadily, finishing with Colm's father yelling at the top of his lungs.

Colm's mother sat, stoic. For once, the composed woman didn't know how to react.

Colm sat, tears of not realization, but determination welling in his eyes.

"You're wrong! Wrong! She's right where I told you!" he cried out. He pulled out of his chair, hands wrapped around himself and bolted for the door, where he felt calm, murmuring and being murmured to by Heather's figment.

He closed the door behind him, and crawled into his bed, tear streaming down his face.

_I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay, _his own voice murmured in his brain.

_You're okay. You're okay. You're okay, _returned Heather.

In a haunting tone, the two voices melded together and whispered simultaneously.

_You're not okay._

* * *

**Colm Miller**

**The Miller Household**

**May 22th, 9:31 AM. Twenty-nine minutes until the reaping.**

Colm's mind was feeling lackluster, for once.

For the past week, he'd felt numb. His cave had been barren in his absence.

His focus had shifted, unknowingly moving between his reality and that of his father's. Whose was real? For years… he'd known he was the one with the straight head. And yet…

No. He would believe in his beliefs, and his father could believe in his. He liked the one where Heather was alive, anyway.

He continued down his path of beliefs as he dressed for the Reaping. Since the Capitol didn't really kill these kids… right. They _didn't _kill them.

He was the sane one. Had been for years. He just had to remember.

Shaking his head, Colm stated his beliefs in his mind to reinforce them. _The Capitol doesn't actually kill the kids. I don't need to dress up for a hoax._

As he repeated the same thought, he threw on a simple tan shirt and buttoned pants. Nothing special.

A quiet rapping on the door yanked Colm out of his theories and their flaws. His mother's careful voice ventured ever so quietly.

"Colm, hon? Are you ready? It's time… for the Reaping," she said. It was only as she began to repeat her phrase when Colm swung the door open.

"Alright, mom," he said as their eyes met. For the past few days, he'd made a point of avoiding speech with either of the two, giving special attention to avoid his father overall.

His mother smiled gently, losing her composure to gain her son's trust. Theoretically, correct.

_Maybe she's becoming saner, _he noted quietly.

His mother led the way to his father, who stood at the door impatiently. Looking at his family, he noticed how underdressed he appeared. His mother wore an old dress that still had vibrant splotches throughout. His father had a classy suit.

_Classy _meaning without holes or fading.

He suddenly gained immense interest in his shoes as they encroached his father, who tapped his watch.

"We've already got this one, Fi. I'd rather not be more alienated by being late."

Colm's mother scowled, but followed his father without question.

As the three continued to District Nine's Town Square, Colm regained some confidence and blurted the words with his usual filter, which was non-existent.

"You two are delusional," he said simply. His father reddened; his mother raised her eyebrows in fear.

And as both looked ready to scold him, Colm darted off to the thirteen-year old section.

* * *

**Colm Miller**

**District Nine Town Square**

**May 22****nd****, 10:07 A.M. Twelve minutes into the Reaping.**

Colm's panting and wheezing calmed down just on time to hear the speech of District Nine's Mayor, Mayor Capricorn. Colm had no problems with the mayor, an aggressive man who'd become more irritable since the loss of his daughter the past year to the Games, but he disliked the speech to no end.

It disagreed with too many of his theories.

"- and we owe the Capitol greatly for their forgiveness. And now, I welcome Luna Arman, Capitol Representative of District Nine!" the mayor said. His face remained blank and unsteady throughout the speech. Colm had been taking note of his behavior, noting the odds that he'd probably be fired for his incapacity soon.

Theoretically, the woman onstage was impossible. Absolutely ridiculous. She wore clothes from centuries ago- native feathers with apparently _natural _paints and loose moccasins. Her hops and leaps to and fro the stage gained the attention of several of District Nine's boys. Theoretically, Colm should've followed their lead.

Luna continued rambling- something about a creator and distinguishment. Honestly, now. When you're dressed up as some history artifact in the midst of farmers, didn't she think she was distinguished enough?

Nevertheless, the woman hopped to the boys' bowl.

That was unrealistic. It broke _several _theories! Even as they were small, tradition stated the girls would be doomed first.

Colm's anger simmered with those around him, but for different reasons. It disagreed with his theories!

As he considered factoring the situation for variables, the slip flew out, gracefully fluttering to Luna's arm.

"Colm Miller!"

Shocked, but not afraid, the Miller boy parted from his age group.

Behind him, voices erupted as the thirteen year old had been reaped. They'd seen a girl from Seven around his age, but the girl had muscle and a killer look in her eye. Colm might've reached her shoulder.

Colm was greatly annoyed. These people _had _to be delusional and make him look bad in front of the Capitol and his sister, who was undoubtedly watching from afar. But… was she?

As Colm repeated his theories in his head, reminding himself that he _was _the sane one, Peacekeepers hidden amongst the crowd shuffled towards the insurgent crowd. A woman in a ragged dress made her way to the man who'd disrupted Clef's speech. A man in a T-shirt and jeans shoved his way to the Buccan couple, who'd began yelling foul words at the Peacekeepers behind the ropes. A supposed nineteen-year old orphan approached the Miller couple, who'd began screeching and revving up their neighbors, family, and co-workers to join them. Each held a needle in their hand.

The actions of the three were widely unnoticed since the needle had the length of penny.

But inside was enough poison to kill a dozen people. Slowly. Painfully.

As the female tribute made her way to the stage, clutching the hems of her blue dress as she ascended the podium, the needles injected to their victims unknowingly.

Unknown to the public, each would disappear.

Perhaps they'd finally reached the hidden district.

* * *

_A/N: Give me your thoughts in a review!_

_Regular questions:_

_How do you like Colm?_

_How was the portrayal?_

_Critique?_

_How were the characters besides Colm?_


	15. Celina Kimp: The Red Within Us All

_A/N: Almost there! _

_This update rate will continue, allowing me to get a bit ahead (a chapter or two tops), so I can update when life decides to shine its ugly face on me_

_Without further ado, here are Celina Kimp and Soner Rowntree from Keb85 and The Koala of Doom. Celina is fifteen while Soner is seventeen._

* * *

**Celina Kimp**

**District Ten Mental Institute**

**May 20****th****, 11:43 A.M. One day, ten hours, seventeen minutes from the Reaping.**

They were out to get her. They were watching. They had followed her, followed her ever since she did it. Ever since, they'd never left her alone. They hid in the shadows, following, laughing at her incompetence. She was being watched.

Even in the protection of the light, Celina cuddled into her corner next to the window. The building in which she remained wasn't well-built nor sanitary. The Mental Institute of District Ten, as any in the outer districts, was disgusting. Many had even considered tearing it down. Celina was oblivious to the condition of her home since… it happened.

Beside her, a miniscule scrap of bread and meat slowly hardened. For the third day in a row, Celina went without food.

_It's poisoned. They're trying to kill me. Again. I can't eat their food. They'll kill me. They're all trying to kill me. I'm being watched._

For hours, days, she'd remained so. In her corner, waving her plastic knife whenever a nurse or attendant or Peacekeeper decided to check if she was still alive.

Her head jolted as if shocked from side to side, spying on the rodents which scurried across the floor to specs of dust floating ominously through the wind shield with absolute suspicion.

_Even the dust they blow in could be intoxicated. That rat must be from the Capitol. It's trying to kill me. Just because of some self-defense._

A scream from far away, undoubtedly another inmate in complete madness, elicited a shriek from Celina and her new rodent friend. Her knife rose into stance, defending herself with the usual glint in her eyes.

_See! They're out to get me, again! Just leave me alone!_

She backed up further against the window, moving as far as the bullet proof glass would allow. The ones who followed her didn't like the light, you see. It was only natural for Celina to like the light. She spent her days against the damned window that caged her from her escape into the district, where light was always free.

As every Tuesday, or was it Wednesday? No matter the day, Celina jabbed her knife into the window every seventh day, trying to make her grand escape- which included a four story fall. See, a cow that Casper would place perfectly under her would cushion the fall, or so she'd planned. Casper… she needed to consult cow times with him.

Of all the people in the cursed district, Casper was the only one not out for her blood. That in itself was a miracle. All the others… all the others wanted her to rot. Just because of some self-… self-defense.

Her mind slowly whisked Celina away, back to the yesteryears when the window wasn't what caged her. When it wasn't about the light, it was about the dark.

_It was surprisingly cold for a December. Even in the heart of winter, District Ten never went too far under freezing point. Past that, icy sheets of rain rampaged the calm streets of District Ten, forcing all but three young cowhands to sprint for their lives. The three teenagers moseyed as if it was an autumn day._

_Kane Mathis was talking about the latest cattle drive, laughing at Celina whenever she tripped on the stupid rocks lying in wait for her on the pebble path. On the other side, Holly Crock listened, occasionally adding a name or time to Kane's tale of Cory the Crazy Cow._

_Celina, as she so often did, questioned how she'd become friends with the two._

_As they continued to talk and chit-chat, Celina began to hum a nursery rhyme under her breath, keeping her gaze on the path. Stupid rocks wouldn't get her this time._

"_Celina?" Kane called jokingly. "Forgetting something?"_

_After a couple of double-takes and quick surveys, Celina shook her head._

"_Ce, you live here, remember?" Celina rose an eyebrow, spinning clumsily to face the blood-red barn with white fencing. Celina's color flushed to match the barn's. A nervous laugh burst from her lips, instigating light chuckles from her companions. After quick farewells, Kane and Holly continued on the mile and a half walk to their barns._

_Then, she opened the door to the smell… the smell of desire. Of possibility. Of lust. Not the kind hormonal teenagers had, but a more devious one. The lust for… blood._

_With a musical bit of laughter, she closed the barn door._

_And all she'd seen was red. The red from the barn, the red from her cheeks._

_The red from her parents. And the red from her baby sister._

There was more, of course. If she tried hard enough, Celina would remember perhaps the look on her mother's face, the exact words her father had been yelling when she cut his jugular out. It was a devastating incident, they said. There was too much proof pointing to the victim's daughter, sister.

A devastating incident, indeed.

* * *

**Celina Kimp**

**District Ten Mental Institute**

**May 20****th****, 5:25 P.M. One day, sixteen hours, thirty five minutes from the Reaping.**

Apparently, reminiscing about the murder of your family was good nap fuel. Celina would wake up, plastic knife jutting outwards, to a light shake.

To the contact, Celina was screaming bloody murder and swatting the air viciously before the familiar scent and pair of arms halted her.

"Calm down, Ce. Calm down. Just me. No one's out to get you. Just me," the twenty-three or so year old Peacekeeper assured in a low voice.

Though it took her a while, she knew this person. Casper Anchor, the only non-stalker remaining in District Ten.

"You okay? Or do I need to call the doctor?" Casper said with a grin. He knew that Celina would have a knife in the doctor's throat before she let that creep lay a hand on her. He was out to get her, you know.

"I'm fine," she huffed indignantly, swiveling around, scanning the ground for any possible threats- the rat was under thorough investigation in Celina's mind.

"Something out to getcha? Who is it this time, ol' Westheimer?" he said, leaning back in the rickety old recliner she'd been provided. It was provided by _them. _It was probably designed specifically to crush her once the cameras under the bed identified her. She'd been trouble finding the stupid cameras, but she'd find them eventually.

"Actually, it's the rat," she said. She tried not to notice Casper's overly large grin.

He hopped upwards, poking at her various knick-knacks when he reached a platter of food.

"Ce," he groaned. "Your food. What is this, day four? You have to eat something before you starve off," he said.

Celina shrugged, humming the tune which, to the best of her knowledge, was the one on that fateful day. "Not up for food."

Casper, putting on his Peacekeeper mask, began a lecture about food, occasionally asking a question Celina ignored.

After finishing, he paused, waiting for a response.

Celina rolled her eyes. "They're out to get me, Cas. I thought we made this clear. They want to kill me. They're watching me, even as we speak," she stated, rather matter-a-factly.

"Oh, yeah? Will you eat something I bring?" She considered this before responding with her signature shrug. Casper smiled lop-sidedly. "Give me a minute."

She remained plopped in her seat while Casper went out, then back in the room in less than a minute flat. "Eat. Now."

He slid a fork and knife into her hands, though it was unnecessary. She already had her knife, which practically served as her utensil for life. She buried said knife into the unsuspecting meat, daintily swallowing tidbits. Every now and again, she paused and sunk into her corner for a while, taking a break from the food, which almost immediately elicited an abrupt cough from Casper.

"Lighten up, Cas. What am I, an animal? I can take breaks from food."

Slowly, her meal vanished bit-by-bit from the plate, until the grimy white surface was all that remained.

"Good. That wasn't so bad, was it?" Celina ignored his inquiry, scrunching up her eyebrows in thought before exclaiming joyously.

"I remembered! Casper! I need you to get me a cow," she said with bright eyes. Casper remained still, an odd emotion crossing his face. Probably deciding which cow would work the best. "A fat one."

Casper smiled grimly. "Okay, Ce. I'll see what I can do."

Celina clasped her hands happily before throwing her arms around Casper. "I need it to get out of here."

Casper released the embrace slowly; his eyes dimming. "Okay, Celina. I'll try as hard as I can."

With the darkest smile she'd ever seen, Casper rose.

She hoped he was going to look for her cow.

* * *

**Celina Kimp**

**District Ten Town Square**

**9:57 A.M. Three minutes until the Reaping.**

Celina was one of the few people in Ten who sincerely enjoyed the Reaping. Casper had told her about the Reaping, and she was quite sure her family had, but it was all dim. Where were these kids even going?

But her confusion wasn't what made the Reaping pleasurable. It was the light. In its full form, bright and hot. She spun in her fifteen-year-old section in the white and blue dress Casper'd gotten her for her birthday two years previous.

She hummed happily; the kids around her gave her some space. What nice people they were.

"Ce. Mayor's about to start. You should stop," a voice whispered from across the rope. A row of shining teeth that only Casper had caught her attention, standing a person or two away from her.

"The mayor can learn to speak without my attention," she responded, still spinning. Casper chuckled, but quickly fell into line when Mayor Splen finally started the drawing. Celina, like those around her, dreaded the drawing, but not for reasons the others shared. She just wanted to stand her all day.

"My fine district, the day has come. Our method of repayment to the Capitol for the animosity we created in the Dark Days has come once again. Today, two fine representatives of District Ten shall enter the Capitol. It's about time one comes out, am I correct?" the mayor said. A few rounds of enthusiastic cheers rang out, but Celina barely noticed them.

"Yes, yes. Now let's all give a warm round of applause to Clef Grin, escort and mentor for the tributes of District Ten for the past twenty-two years!"

The applause left much to be desired. The man who approached had so much ink on him, all of which was in the form of musical chords and notes, 'gracefully' leapt onstage. Celina was still spinning, humming peacefully.

"District Ten! Welcome! The mayor's right, it's time we pull a winner, and I have a good feeling! Let's hear it!"

The crowd half-applauded, much to the pleasure of the odd man.

The inky man let out a musical harmony to the crowd's low rumble, effectively killing the little applause he'd earned.

"No, no, keep going! We had a perfect match right there, just keep-,"

"Get on with it, you creep!" a voice towards the back, undoubtedly a parent, growled at the escort. In response, he made a quiet motion to the general direction at a Peacekeeper, who nodded with a slight squint.

"Hmph! This is a change, indeed! Let us meet our _lucky _tributes! We'll start with the girls."

His tattoo-infested arms sunk into the names of the teenage population of their district. Each and every one of them watched, praying, begging to be spared. Except for Celina, of course, who spun with ditzy laughter.

His arms flew out of the bowl, triumphantly.

"Celina Kimp!"

Celina didn't even notice. She kept humming, spinning, laughing. The light felt oh so good on her pale skin.

"Celina Kimp! Peacekeepers, please do look for a Celina Kimp," Clef murmured off-handedly, admiring the notes on his arm.

It was Casper who acted. In a quick movement, he yanked Celina from under the rope, pulling her with force that surprised her from her quick hums. Peacekeepers and parents wanting this Celina girl instead of their own children cried out, pointing incredulously at the fleeing pair.

The worst part was how close they were. Casper knew the way out of the District, the holes in the protection. Just one more turn…

And the Peacekeepers intercepted them. Half a dozen with guns ablaze, most with grimaces due to pointing at one of their own. Celina was dazed, laughing slightly at the situation.

"So, Cas. Guess you're not getting me that cow, huh?"

The circle of Peacekeepers moved inwards.

* * *

_A/N: Hm… not my best work._

_I'm really sorry to the submitters of these last six or so tributes- and the submitters of the first four or so. Those tributes weren't showcased well, and I promise, I'll make it up through Train Rides and Training and Interviews._

_Regular Questions:_

_How do you like Celina?_

_How was the portrayal?_

_Critique?_

_How were the other characters? (Not many- Casper and Clef. All C names from District Ten, huh?)_


End file.
